


Constellations Against Skin

by StarlightSoul (SaraSauce)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, And yes it does matter to the plot, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic Elements, Castiel doesn't show up until later and I'm sorry about that, Don't Like Don't Read, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Follows Season 2 Onward, Found Family, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Multi, Platonic Soulmates, Polyamory, Reader is a Hunter, Reader is a psychic, Reader-Insert, Some Humor, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Team as Family, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, also reader curses a lot, and it's part of a case, doesn't happen to the reader, i'm a sap, just mentioned though, no beta we die like men, reader is bi btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraSauce/pseuds/StarlightSoul
Summary: n.t."You hold him in your arms, a thousand stars in the bones of a man, and nobody could have thought you’d come so close to holding constellations against your skin."From the time you could hold a crayon you'd been leaving old magic in your wake, the ancient words flowing from your hand like water. It wasn't until you were older and you started hunting you realized your nonsense soulmark was in Enochian. Funny how that works.And then Dean God-Damn Winchester shows up in your life. And suddenly you're head-over-heels for someone who's name isn't written on your skin. But you'd long since given up the idea that the Angel you're bound to would ever show up. That's okay. You'd learned to be happy with what you have.Imagine the shock that comes when you wake up one day with a second soulmark.AKA: Both the literal and the figurative demons of your past catch up with you. And they want your head on a stake.OPEN FOR ADOPTION in light of recent events
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/You, Castiel/Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 43
Kudos: 121





	1. Found

Normal day, normal hunt. 

You’d taken out a rogue werewolf in Wyoming, even if just to spend your time doing something other than sulking. Since John died and you’d been throwing yourself into hunts more and more. It was the only thing keeping the emptiness from swallowing you whole. It burned you up inside and made you feel hollow - you’d almost considered going back to New York, to hide away where you were safe. But there was a reason you'd left and you weren’t changing your mind anytime soon. Even if they would protect you. Even if you missed a few of them.

You knocked back a drink in some crummy bar. A High School state championship game played on the TVs, leaving the room full of cheering and angry locals. It was filled with more people than a place like this should get in a week. Every other second someone in an annoyingly cheery color of yellow knocked into you. Some high schooler made you spill your drink and you scowled. Fucking teenager wasn't even supposed to be there.

The whole reason you'd chosen this place was because you thought it would be funny - it was a country themed joint lauded by locals as a good time. Mechanical bulls, line dancing, a Texas flag on the wall made of beer cans. You'd hoped to see some horrible drunken dancing but you got this mess instead.

Your life was ever the series of disappointments.

You fought back a yawn and slid a twenty to the bartender; you needed to get some sleep if you were going to hit the road tomorrow. You’d stayed in town too long already. You let out a sigh - you had no idea where you were going to go. You didn’t have another case yet.

Maybe you would stop by Bobby's. It'd been a long time since you'd seen him. Since before you got the news John died. You hoped he was doing alright and not drinking too much. You would have to check up on him, make sure he wasn’t destroying his liver. You owed him that much.

You slid off the wobbly stool and began the ordeal of shoving your way through the sardine can crowd and towards the door.

You felt sick.

And the more you moved the worse you felt, goosebumps rushing along your skin and a pit of dread pooling like tar in your chest. You shouldered your way past a frat guy and almost face planted - tunnel vision closing in on you. Your ears echoed with the sound of rushing water and static. You tried to shake out of it but the room was spinning.

Something was horribly wrong.

You looked for signs something was off, that maybe you were making a mistake. But nothing was out of place; not the people or the exits, the lights, the TVs. There was no tell-tale flickering lights and electrical interference. But the all too familiar acid-burn of a demon’s presence snaked through your senses nonetheless - like something acrid was crawling through your ribs and crushing your heart.

There was no way. 

He couldn't have found you so soon. 

You’d been so careful.

You felt a gun press against your back. The smell of sulphur and cheap cologne invaded your nose.

Cold metal bit into your spine and hot breath fanned against your jaw. His hand snaked onto your hip and dug in hard enough to break skin with his nails. You fought back a flinch at the feel of his body pressed against your back. Static encroached on your vision and ringing pierced your ears.

His lips touched the shell of your ear and you shuddered. His touch felt like burning ice.

His voice was like nails on a chalkboard, even when it came out as a low, smooth murmur. You were reacting violently to his presence just as you always had; you were close to passing out. You closed your eyes tight and tried not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

"Come with me or I start shooting civilians."

\--

The ringing of a phone woke Dean up at half past three in the morning. 

Because of fucking course it did. 

He groaned, blindly reaching over for his phone on the nightstand. What the hell? This was the first decent night's sleep he'd gotten in a week and a half.

"There better be good reason for this, Bobby." He mumbled out, sleep clinging to his voice and slurring his speech.

"You still in Wyoming?" He said, as if there was nothing wrong with calling someone in the middle of the night.

"Yeah,” Dean grunted and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t like where this was going. “And?"

"Gotta case. I'm three hours out from a town called Ridgeview. And you two are gonna meet me there.” Bobby’s tone was tense and left no room for argument. “So get your sorry ass out of bed and on the road."

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the bed, shaking off the tangled sheets. He flicked Sam on his nose to wake him up. How had the phone not bothered him? He ignored his brother's indignant look and started getting dressed. "So what's such a big deal it can't wait till morning?"

"(Y/n)(L/n). She's a hunter. And a friend," There was a pause on the line and a long, tired sigh. His voice somehow sounded both exhausted and extremely pissed off. "She's in the ICU. Some son of a bitch nearly killed her, and I plan on kickin’ its ass."

Dean shrugged on some flannel and smacked Sam's leg. He was being slow as hell. "We know what she was hunting?"

"She called me yesterday and said she'd just finished up with a werewolf case. Open and shut, nothing left to do. And her injuries, from what I’ve heard, don’t line up with a wolf attack. Naw, it was somethin’ else. Somethin’ pissed off."

Sam was _finally_ rolling out of bed as Dean threw what few belongings he had into his duffel. "You don't have to keep me in suspense, Bobby, just lay it on me."

"I think the demon she's been running from caught up with her."

Fifteen minutes later the boys were in the Impala, Dean turning up the radio to keep himself awake. Sam sat in the passenger seat, fighting back yawns and flipping through John’s journal. “Bobby said this demon’s name is Alioth?”

“Yeah. Dad should have an entry or two in there, apparently he and this (Y/n) chick exorcised it more than once.” Dean let out a huff of breath, annoyed. “Don’t know why I’ve never heard of her though, if they were _so close_.”

Sam scoffed. “Right, because we know every single person Dad’s ever hunted with.”

Dean flicked him on the ear. It was too early for sarcasm!

“Jerk,” Sam let out under his breath. 

Dean rolled his eyes and focused on the road. “Just do the damn research.”

The car was quiet but for the blaring radio and tires on asphalt. He was on edge and tired and restless all at once. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, clenching and unclenching his jaw. 

Maybe this bastard would lead them to Yellow-Eyes.

Not long later Sam sat up straight in his seat. “Found something.” He turned down the radio and Dean had to stop himself from smacking his hand away from the knob. Sam lay the journal flat in his lap and sighed. “Okay, so…”

Dean waited for Sam to say something but he was quiet. “Okay, what’d you find?” He spared a quick glance at his brother, whose eyebrows were knitted together and eyes narrowed.

It took Sam a moment to respond, still looking at the journal. “Dad first met this thing all the way back in ‘86. Ran into it another half dozen times since then. It keeps going after the same person - (Y/n).”

“Great, she has a demon stalker.” Dean started, gears in his brain working through the new information. “Do we know why?”

His brother was quiet.

“Sam?”

“She’s Psychic.” Sam breathed; Dean could barely hear him over the guitar solo playing low on the radio.

Huh.

“Like Missouri psychic or freaky, ‘Special Kids’ psychic?”

Dean didn’t catch Sam’s offended look. “I’m not sure. Dad didn’t seem to know what was up either.” He heard shuffling paper and a surprised hum. “Check out these polaroids. She was _eight_.”

“Dude, I’m driving.” But Dean caught a glimpse of them anyway. It was a devils trap scrawled on a children’s bedroom wall in blue crayon. He furrowed his brow. “Huh. That’s not something you see every day.”

“No kidding.”

They got to Ridgeview, Wyoming four hours later, checking into a motel room before meeting Bobby at a diner. The older hunter looked run ragged, dark circles harsher than usual and a sour look on his face. They ordered their food before talking about the case. Bobby rested his face in his hand.

“Dude, you look like shit.” Dean said, worry prickling his nerves and festering in his chest. Bobby was the only family they had left. He hated seeing him so bothered.

“Thanks,” he grumbled. “I try.”

Sam shifted in his seat, pulling out John’s journal and ignoring their exchange. “So you think it was the demon that attacked her, right? What makes you say that?”

Bobby let out a drawn-out sigh and took a long drink of his coffee. “We’ll have to visit her in the ICU to be sure, but this’s got ‘Sadistic Bastard’ written all over it. This wasn’t something lashing out or defending itself. Something worked her over.” His knuckles were white against his coffee mug. If anybody noticed the tremors they didn’t say anything. “She was tortured, Sam.”

The brothers looked at each other. Well, shit.

Dean leaned forward with a whisper. “Like how bad are we talking here?”

“She nearly flatlined.”

And in the hospital, after arguing with the receptionist to let all three of them in instead of just Bobby, Dean was pissed. He swallowed and tried not to think of his own time trapped in a hospital bed, dying - how John had sacrificed himself. But he forced those thoughts away like he'd been doing for the past few months. It wasn’t the time for that. It was never the time for that.

The nurse had been happy some family had shown up, said that it was the worst crime to happen in town in twenty years. The whole staff of the tiny emergency center was on edge, they were used to hunting injuries, not… this. 

Sam was in the hallway interviewing the paramedics while he and Bobby went to see you. Only two people could be in the room at once, at least until you said otherwise.

You were unconscious - partially sedated for the pain. Dean couldn’t tell if you were asleep or hovering in a drugged in-between; every once in a while you would move, apparently trying to get comfortable. An IV lead was right under your collarbone, your arms were wrapped in thick bandages. The rest of you, from what he could see, was covered just as thoroughly. The only part of you without bandages was your face, and that was a deep, bruised purple underneath the oxygen mask.

Dean narrowed his eyes as he looked over the doctor’s report. Over a hundred shallow lacerations, more than a few blunt force injuries, a broken leg and three broken fingers. Areas where your skin had been cut off altogether, leaving bare patches of muscle exposed. There were third degree burns over the soulmark on your ribs, like someone had tried to burn it off you for good. A tattoo on your leg had been burned through. You’d needed a lot of grafts and it’d been hard to find intact skin to use.

Your heartbeat had been dangerously slow when they found you. You’d been in shock and went into cardiac arrest two times. You were stable now, but only just.

Bobby pulled up a chair and sat next to you, mumbling apologies under his breath. Dean felt like he was intruding on something, but stayed still nonetheless. “We’re gonna find the son of a bitch that did this, Bobby. I promise.” He moved to stand at your other side, hands clenching on on the railing and looking over your form. God, sometimes this job got to him. He was pissed off and nauseated at the same time. You would think after all he’s seen on hunts, he’d react better - but he was used to monsters… not this. He’d only encountered a few demons before, and it was mostly quick deaths and destruction, plane crashes or house fires.

He really fucking hated demons.

He didn’t know when you drifted awake, but your half-lidded eyes were on him, mouth moving underneath your oxygen mask. He didn’t know what you were saying, all that was coming out of your mouth was raspy mumbling, too quiet and jumbled for him to make out. Your hand twitched toward his.

Bobby put a hand on your hair, one of the few parts of you not beat to hell, and stole your attention. Your eyes were glassy and unfocused, and Dean wondered if you even knew where you were. Bobby just hushed you, voice gentle like when Dean was nine and having nightmares. One of the few times Bobby Singer was ever soft was when one of his kids was hurt.

Now Dean _really_ felt like he was intruding.

He went to leave but felt shaky fingers wrap around his hand. He fought the urge to flinch away. Your touch felt like warm static, making goosebumps rush over his skin. But you weren’t looking at him. Your eyes were off on the distance, classic hundred-yard stare, half-shut, but your hand held onto his. Dean didn’t have the heart to pull away.

Damn.

Bobby stayed with you when Dean eventually left. He had enough holy water to drown a full grown man in - he wasn’t leaving you alone until they found the demon. Sam and Dean went to the crime scene.

And, boy, was that place a mess - the abandoned paper mill had seen better days, and was in a quiet part of town. The room was dark and smelled of mold and metal and _sulphur_. Rust coated machinery sat silent and unused, leaky pipes on the walls making the only noise. On the floor lay a marker for where the local police found a body - probably the thing’s meatsuit, a bloody knife not too far away. It was a small thing, skinny and only about two inches long, but a knife is a knife is a knife. Dean knew better than most that you didn’t need a giant blade to fuck someone up. A few feet behind where they found the dead guy was a blow torch.

“So,” Sam started, examining a strange symbol drawn on the floor in blood. _Your_ blood. “Paramedics say they heard a high-pitched ringing so horrible, it made their ears bleed. There was a flash of pure white light, and all the lightbulbs for about three blocks exploded.”

Dean grunted in response, staring at the intermittent pools of blood on the floor and what looked to be singed ropes. It must’ve been where you were restrained. “So what stopped it?”

“What?” Sam looked at him oddly.

“What stopped the demon? Looks like it cut and run.” Dean moved to look over at some exploded lamps on the ceiling. “If it wanted to kill (Y/n), it could’ve. But the paramedics found the scene just like this, right?” He gestured to the blood and broken glass. “So why did it stop? Why did it let her go?” He fixed Sam with a pointed look.

All Sam had for him was a shrug. “Maybe it was looking for information and it got what it wanted.”

“Maybe.” Sam took a photo of the symbol as Dean looked at the ropes closer. It was like they’d been burned through from the inside out. “But wouldn’t it kill her afterward anyway?”

That night Dean's dreams were scattered. 

_There was fire burning his house. He could only watch from the outside in John’s arms as it burned to ash with his parents inside. Then he was face to face with a demon in a motel, hiding behind John's legs and clutching at his coat. He was only eight. The demon wanted something from him. Its white eyes looked at him like he was a lab rat. Then there were nuns. A church and Catholic School. He lived in a group home with other orphans. The nuns were angry with him for something. Then he was alone in the church that was far too big. The stained glass windows cast ominous light into an empty, echoing vastness of the church. No matter how much he ran he ended up back in the pulpit._

_But then you were there, in a navy blue private school uniform. Younger, with different hair. He couldn't make out your face but he somehow knew it was you. There was warmth. You were trying to tell him something, something important, but he couldn’t understand you. It was like you were speaking another language entirely. One that spiked in his ears and made his head hurt. You were frustrated. Were you crying? Yelling? He didn’t know. You sighed and drew something on his hand in sharpie._

_The marble tile beneath him cracked and fractured, opening up to the void underneath. It crumbled away completely._

_The two of you fell._

Dean woke up a little past six in the morning with a sigil scratched bright-red into his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my new WIP! I hope you enjoy your stay! I only have one more chapter in my master doc but for now, I don't intend to slow down. I also apologize for Reader-chan being rendered unconscious. That's just how it be sometimes.  
> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading, have a great day!


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up in the hospital and flirt when you shouldn't.

You faded in and out of awareness for a day. Nurses moved around your room, taking your vital signs and redressing your wounds. Everything was fuzzy and floaty, like there was fog between you and the rest of the world. You heard voices, fading in and out. People you knew. There was a warm presence next to you - it felt like cherry pie and cedar-smoke. Like home. You reached out for it. 

There were so many thoughts and feelings where you were. The energy was so jumbled and sad and sinking. Hope and despair and relief and worry and _pain_ in a horrible emotion soup forced down your throat and into your lungs. It was too much.

At some point you thought you dreamt of an empty, echoing church and a boy with green eyes.

Your soulmark felt horrible on your ribs, the burning threatening to pull sobs from your throat even in your sleep _._ So much of you hurt.

It was that pain that woke you up.

You groaned, opening your eyes and blinking against the lone, dim light buzzing above a sink. The small room smelled strongly of disinfectant and linen. Shuffling noises echoed in the hall and a soccer game played lowly on TV. Voices on an intercom would occasionally interrupt the quiet, unobtrusive sound around you with loud beeps and cracking microphones.

Your head was cloudy, but you were aware enough to be yourself - even if your brain felt like it was stuffed full of cotton instead of thoughts. You had no idea how you got in this hospital room - and it was clearly a hospital room. You... didn’t remember anything after you took out the werewolf. Were you still in Wyoming? How much time had passed? Had you been in a car accident?

Wires and tubes stuck onto and into your body made it hard to move. You recognized the IV, EKG, and Oxygen mask but the rest of it was foreign to you. You wanted to get up and walk around, but were afraid you would wind yourself into knots. Besides, sharp pain shot through your whole body whenever you moved. You didn’t think you were going anywhere. It was worse than you were used to, and you were used to pain.

You reached out for the ‘call nurse’ button, but one of your hands wasn’t moving the way it should’ve. You looked down - your non-dominant hand was in a cast, your pinky, ring, and middle finger wrapped in gauze, leaving you with a lobster claw instead of a hand. The blue wrapping had a warding sigil written on it in sharpie - one that you had as a tattoo. Why had someone put that there? You didn’t need it twice. Your right leg was wrapped all the way up your thigh with fiberglass, and you couldn’t move it for the life of you. A frustrated sigh left you before you could help yourself. Just your luck.

You felt like you came down with a very bad cold and then ran into a wall face-first.

Every part of you that you could see was covered in bandages. A mask covered your mouth and nose; you could feel the faint tickle of oxygen coming through and brushing against your nostrils. There was even a _fucking tube in your throat._ You could feel it chafe every time you moved - it came out your nose and you had to stop yourself from gagging around it every other second. It gave you the worst sore throat you’d ever had on steroids. 

The nurse better haul ass, you wanted this thing gone. 

And your _ribs_ , holy shit. Was that extremely painful or completely numb? Hell if you knew. 

You stretched uncomfortably, choking back a grunt of pain as you reached for the remote that was just a _little bit_ out of your reach.

A sharp intake of breath came from the door and something light hit the floor.

You turned to see none other than Dean Winchester - a man you’d been wanting to meet since you were fourteen, when you met John the second time. He’d been all too happy to shut that idea down quick, though. He hadn’t even wanted you around himself at the time, let alone his kids - a fact that never changed even after you started hunting in earnest around the same time Dean had. Didn’t need his sons meeting the _freak,_ right?

John’s rejections had always hurt more than you were willing to admit.

You recognized Dean from the photos, though - more recent ones, and from the familiar soul thrumming through him. Different than his father’s gunsmoke and whiskey, yes, but the threads were there - you knew a Winchester when you felt one. Dean felt like campfires and old cars. A pine forest on a summer night. 

You flushed scarlet. Of course when you finally met your dead friend’s hot son you looked like a drowned cat that got hit by a bus. (You felt like that too). You were injured to hell, but you had eyes - and you were in a hospital bed. There was _no way_ you could flirt with him like this. Who the hell flirted while they were in the hospital?

This fucking sucked.

You made a pointed effort to avoid looking in his head. You didn’t need to hear his thoughts, they were probably just filled with the general hunter concern tinged with curiosity that you felt yourself when working a case. You didn’t have your necklace, which you’d enchanted and blessed yourself, so you were getting a metric shit-ton of the disjointed brain chatter and stray emotions it would normally keep away. The drugs dulled your senses somewhat, so it was more like cafeteria noise than legible thoughts, thank god. You would just have to not focus on him too much. Easy.

It wasn’t easy, he was very attention-grabbing.

Wait.

Were you a case?

Dean just looked at you in shock and then at the cheap coffee he’d spilled on the floor.

“Hey,” He gave an uneven smile before crossing the room to the sink and grabbing a few paper towels. “Bobby’ll be glad you’re awake.”

“Bobby’s here?” . You lowered your face mask to speak. That hurt more than it should’ve. Your throat was dry as hell, and your voice came out in a harsh, cracking whisper around the feeding tube. 

You felt like crying. Had he been worried about you? How did he even know where you were? Had the hospital gone through your things?

You’d really missed him.

Dean coughed and looked away from you. Of course he would - he probably didn’t know how to deal with a random crying chick more than any other hunter. Which is to say, not at all. You blinked away your tears for the sake of both your pride. 

“Yeah, he’s asleep back at the motel. Stayed here all night.” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “He only agreed to go back if someone stayed here with you.”

You sighed, settling back into the lumpy hospital pillow. “Can you get the thingy?” You pointed at the Call Nurse button. You were not stretching like that again, your whole body felt like it was on fire _and_ underwater. 

What drugs had they given you?

He nodded again, handing you the remote. “I’m Dean, by the way.” 

“I know,” You rasped, with a wink that hurt way too much to make. Very sexy of you. “Nice to finally meet you.”

That caught him off guard, apparently. He gave you a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised comically higher than the other. You would think this man had never been flirted with by a grievously injured monster hunter before.

His deer-in-a-headlights look was cute, though.

You figured you should explain yourself. “John never let me anywhere near you and Sam, even when he kept telling me how great y'all are. Always figured it would be cool meeting a hunter my own age, though.” You gave the best, genuine smile you could muster and held out your good hand. “I’m (Y/n).”

He shook your hand, and you had to stop yourself pulling away in shock. Your energy had leapt out at his and latched on, sending a blush straight to your face and a warm, tingly feeling to your soulmark.

It’d never done _that_ before.

You both yanked your hands away, looking away from each other. 

Had he felt that too? He must’ve, right? If his flustered expression and red ears were anything to go by, then yes, he had. 

Great, as if you weren't already a freak.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll go call Bobby. He’ll want to know you’re up.” He started, walking backwards toward the door. You nodded, hugging yourself as best you could and kept your eyes firmly planted on the wall. “I, um - I got your message, by the way.”

“What?” Your eyes shot up to meet his, confused You didn’t have his phone number. Was he talking about the polaroid of John you mailed Bobby to give the boys?

“Oh,” He waved you off, still walking backwards. He tripped on the trash can. “Nothing. You know what? Forget I said that.” And he left, pulling out his cell phone.

But you saw the sigil scratched on his hand - the same one that was on your cast. The same one that hid you from demons. One from your personal collection of Enochian seals. The one you hadn’t seen any other hunter ever use _ever._

That’s sure interesting. You wondered idly if that’s what he thought your message was. But, as far as you knew, you couldn’t do something like that.

The nurse rushed in only a minute or two later, interrupting your thoughts, and looking absolutely beside herself. She didn't let Dean back in for a while, because right after her came the bedraggled Dr. Reyes, whose hair was threatening to escape her bun and run away. Apparently you were the biggest case in the hospital and she had just been… waiting for you to wake up. 

The tests she ran were annoying, but you slogged through them all the same.

You could follow the pen with your eyes fine, your pupils were dilating fine, you knew it was 2006, and you didn’t seem to have any memory problems. 

And nobody was answering any of your questions. Dr. Reyes just vaguely said there was an accident but refused going into detail, asking how much pain you were in when you pressed further. A different nurse than earlier brought in a new IV stand, hooking it up and handing you a button. Pain drip, she’d said - press when you needed more meds. 

You pressed it as often as the damn thing let you.

Dr. Reyes agreed to take out the feeding tube shoved down your throat, but only after you proved you could hold down meals. And that meant you had to wait at least until after lunch, if not dinner. Boo.

You resisted the temptation to look at their thoughts to figure out what was going on. You hated, hated, _hated_ doing it on purpose. It felt intrusive and gross to reach into somebody’s head like that and pull out what you wanted. Like prying a snail out of its shell. 

And it reminded you too much of your time in New York.

When she was done looking you over, Dr. Reyes sat down on her rolling stool and leveled you with a serious look, face sad and empathetic but no-nonsense. “You don’t remember what happened?” She sighed when you shook your head, but continued. “Would you like me to tell you what happened, or would you like your family to come talk to you? I can come back later and explain everything medically if you’d prefer it that way.”

You swallowed, fear spiking in your chest at her tone. Bobby had brought at least Dean with him, and you had no reason to believe Sam hadn't followed. Why would he do that if it wasn’t something bad? This was serious, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t have brought back up if it wasn’t. If it was a normal case he would’ve come alone.

Did you want Bobby to tell you?

Yes, yes you did. 

He’d been there after your parents died, and for most of your teenage years; he’d already seen you at your worst.

So you waited a few minutes for the nurse - Callie, her tag said - to get him from the waiting room. He’d apparently gotten there just a few minutes after Dean called him. Dr. Reyes left with the promise of coming back in an hour or so to go over your chart and explain all your injuries, wires, and treatment options.

Bobby looked like he hadn't slept in a week. You weren’t the only one who looked like a drowned cat, apparently. He squeezed your good hand for a second and pulled up what you were sure was a horribly uncomfortable plastic chair. He gave you a sad smile - which made you feel worse, nerves rising in your chest even more. He was never this soft-looking. “How you doing, kid?”

You just shrug weakly, making sure not to move too much, and acting more nonchalant than you felt. “Confused.” You murmur, before looking away and biting your lip, wanting to curl in on yourself but unable to, pain singing in your muscles at your attempt. You hit the pain button again and huffed when it made a beep that meant you’d already gotten your next dose. “I don’t remember how I got here.”

He sighed and sounded centuries old. You felt bad for asking him to come in, for making him so tired. You wanted to make him turn around and get some sleep. To stop worrying about you so much. But he would give you a better idea of what happened than the doctor could, if this was related to a hunt. And you had a sinking feeling it was. 

“I think that’s a good thing, champ.”

You furrowed your brows and looked up at him, searching his face for answers. He just looked exhausted. And you _felt_ just how drained he was. How frustrated, how angry. Heavy.

You felt like a little kid again, waiting for him to tell you why your house had been set on fire. Small, and confused, and clueless. “What happened to me, Bobby?” You breathed, voice small.

You were suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

“Alioth found you. Hurt you real bad,” He started, and you took in a sharp breath that stung your ribs like a bitch.

That _stupid_ demon had been after you for years. But you’d exorcised him last year. He’d never been able to crawl out of hell so fast. You normally had two years of freedom from him _at least_. Bile rose in your throat and you wanted to run anywhere but where you were. He could be anywhere now. 

Had he been exorcised? Were you still in danger? How had he found you?

Who had saved you if it wasn’t Bobby? Because it sure as hell hadn’t been Bobby, you could feel as much. Did you save yourself? You doubted that, as much as you wanted to believe you’d been able to kick his ass all by yourself.

You needed to leave _now._

Bobby put his hand lightly on your arm and you jumped, eyes going wide. “You're safe now. Me, Sam and Dean are gonna find the son of a bitch and send him back to hell if he so much as breathes in this direction.”

You just nod stiffly, staring at the wall, frozen in the sitting position you had bolted into in your panic. “How bad is it?”

“Well, I think you should ask your doctor that-”

“ _Bobby._ ” You didn’t have time for this. 

Would you be able get discharge papers or would you have to sneak out yourself? _Could_ you even sneak out like this?

“Your insides are fine, besides the fact that your heart’s real stressed out.” He sighed again, clearly either oblivious of your impending panic or hoping it would go away by itself. “You’re going to have a lot of scars, though, kid. I’m sorry.”

You forced yourself to breathe. To think, to let that sink in. You looked straight ahead and tried not to imagine what you looked like under your bandages. You would listen to the doctor first, figure out how to handle your wounds, and then get discharged against medical advice. For sure. You could do that. That was a plan.

You didn’t cry.

You _refused_ to cry. Not for your vanity, and not out of fear. It was part of the life, nothing you haven't dealt with before. It’s not like you had anyone to impress, anyway. You were tough, you told yourself, it didn’t matter. And you had three hunters with you. If a demon so much as sneezed there would be a lightning storm, and they would help you get out of here before he found you again.

Not like you would be hard to find, given how much everybody seemed to be talking about you.

"What day is it?" You changed the subject, stubborn to avoid your freak-out. You could drive three states away and follow up with someone there by the time anyone realized you were gone. No need to hyperventilate. It was just the thing that killed your parents. No big deal.

"July tenth. Monday. A bartender walking home heard fighting and called 911 the night before last." He looked at you hesitantly, like he’s afraid of what he could hear. "So what… _Do_ you remember?"

You had to shut your eyes to think past the blank spots in your mind. It was hard - you felt all floaty from the meds, thoughts slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. Everytime you thought you latched onto something you hit empty, gaping holes where the memory should be. 

So you found the very last solid memory, and focused.

_A gunshot._

_Yellow eyes going dark. A body falling to the floor. Cleaning up a scratch on your shoulder. Putting weapons away in your Mustang._

"Finishing a wolf hunt." You croak, wishing you could get yourself some water. "After that there's nothing." You shook your head, frustrated, and run your hand through your hair. 

"Do you know where you might've been heading?” Bobby pressed. “A motel, a store, a bar?"

"A bar." The memory flashes. You'd wanted a drink. "The country-themed one by the book store. It was crowded."

\--

"Dude, I wanna ride the bull."

"Dean, you're not riding the bull."

"Not _now_ , obviously," Dean said on their way past the machine and toward the back of the bar. It was empty, a little past three o'clock in the afternoon, and the place had just opened. The mechanical bull was mocking him, artificial red eyes glowing under the tin-can lights. "When we finish the case." He heard Sam's annoyed huff and chose to ignore it. He was obviously just too intimidated to try and didn’t want Dean to upstage him. Duh.

Dean flashed his FBI badge at the bartender, and his brother did the same before speaking. "I'm Agent Wright with the FBI; this is my partner Agent Mason. We're here about the attack Saturday night. We have reason to believe the victim was here earlier in the night."

That was Dean's cue to pull out an polaroid Bobby had given them, sliding it onto the counter. It was from last year. A headshot. You were smiling and covered in grey mud, just after you’d wiped off your face with your sleeve, your arm still pressed against your cheek. Your hair and shirt were _trashed_. There'd been some spell ingredient you were digging up and it rained the night before, but you hadn’t been letting that stop you. You sent pictures to Bobby pretty often, apparently, though Dean had never noticed. Maybe he had them all hidden in a box somewhere?

Oh, he was _so_ snooping when they got back.

The man behind the counter - his name tag labeled him as David - shrugged after eyeing the photo for a moment. "I wasn't in on Saturday," He nodded to the back. "Duncan was though, I'll go get him."

Sam nodded. "Please do."

"David and Duncan, huh?" Dean muttered when the man was out of earshot. "As if this place needed any more _D_ -bags."

Sam made a choked noise, leaving Dean with a wry grin. The worse his brother reacted to a joke the better he'd done, in Deans humble opinion. Half the fun of road trips was torturing him. Captive audience.

Duncan came out and crossed his arms, apparently swapping places with David. He was standing maybe a little too tall, puffing his chest a bit too much. He didn’t look happy to see them. "You think that girl who got attacked was here?"

"Considering she said so, yeah," Dean said, nodding at the polaroid. "So?"

Duncan took a moment, squinting. "Maybe." He shrugged. "She might've been the rum and coke I had around nine-thirty, but I can't be sure." He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The place was packed, dude. I could barely keep up with orders, let alone remember every single face. "

What a beacon of empathy.

Sam and Dean just looked at each other. "Do you have security cameras?" Sam asked.

"You’ll have to ask the boss." He waved them off, making to leave.

Sam cleared his throat, stopping him. “Then go get them, please.”

Back at the motel, Sam worked his laptop open and Dean studied a map of the small highway town - seeing if there were other cameras they could track your path with. He was circling businesses and intersections along the shortest route between the bar and the paper mill where you'd been found.

He'd been careful to hide his hand from view while they'd been out - he didn't need randos thinking he was satanic.

It had been a shock, waking up with the sigil scratched into his hand. But Bobby reasoned that it was a message, somehow. It was the same tattoo you got on your leg - the one the demon burned through. As far as Bobby knew it was a kind of ward - made it hard for demons to track anyone wearing it.

It freaked Dean out, personally. You'd been unconscious and ten blocks away from him and you left him with that? It gave him the heebs _and_ the jeebs. He was really looking forward to eavesdropping on Sam's inevitable conversation about psychic powers with you. 

But Dean drew it on your cast nonetheless. Your protection had been stripped away, and he didn’t see a reason not to give it back to you.

And that wasn’t even mentioning whatever the hell happened when you shook hands. It felt embarrassing, somehow. Vulnerable, like whatever that energy was had shot through all his walls and shone a light on his insides. You’d seemed just as surprised as him and he didn’t like that one bit.

"Got him," Sam said suddenly from across the table, flipping the laptop around so Dean could see the feed - the camera at the back exit of the bar. A guy in a suit - the dead guy they had yet to get an autopsy report for - held you by one arm and shoved you into the alley, making you almost fall on your face. You weren’t reacting at all, just letting him push you around. He could see the shakes in your legs, though. Why weren’t you doing anything?

Then Dean saw the gun in his hand. Great.

"The place was packed, right?" Sam started, and Dean knew where he was going with this. "He must've gotten the drop in her."

Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. He should’ve gotten a drink when he could’ve. "Everybody in there was a hostage and the dumb bastards didn't even notice."

Sam just nodded. "I mean, it's smart. If she starts something, he can either play the victim or start shooting people."

He kicked Sam’s shin under the table. "Don't compliment the demon, Sam!"

"I'm _not_ complimenting the demon!” He kicked back. “I'm just _wondering_ how we would handle it. With all those people in danger."

Dean held his arms out in a ‘duh’ gesture. "Wait until you’re in a dark alley and then fuck him up when there’s no one he can hurt."

Sam hummed judgmentally at him.

"What?"

"This is from the bookstore’s footage." Sam turned the laptop around again to a different alley. 

It started the same as before - the demon pushing you along. But after a second you elbowed the guy in the face, grabbing the gun from his belt in the same move. Before you could do more, he fisted a hand into your hair and shoved you against the brick wall. He made to punch you, but you ducked and kneed him in the balls, making the demon let go of you and double over. You grabbed his head and kneed him again, this time in the face. Three times, actually - Dean could see dark blood spatter onto the concrete below you.

And then you punched him in the stomach and ran, legs wobbling dangerously. 

You made it all the way to the end of the alley. But the demon reached its hand out and you froze, entire body going stiff. You stood stock-still for a breath. Then your body jerked backward, flying through the air and landing you bodily against the demon's chest. He didn't look happy.

He dragged you out of frame.

"Looks like she thought so, too, Dean." Sam was wearing his bitchface. 

What was his problem? Had he not slept _again?_

"What do you want me to say?" Dean aggressively opened a beer. "Oh, boo hoo, we're fucked if some bastard tries that? We fight, dude, even when the odds are shit. (Y/n) obviously thought so too."

Sam shrugged. "I was thinking more along the lines of _ideas."_

Dean groaned at his brother.

This fucking case.

\--

It was later - much later, after you’d had bland hospital food and proved you could hold down meals. Callie had already pulled the tube from your throat, thank god. You’d gagged around it and thrown up on the floor, but she told you it was normal, to not worry about it, but you were embarrassed anyway, pulling the scratchy blankets over yourself and curling up as much as you could. You were able to keep the rest of the food down after that, though. You hid in your blanket cocoon as long as you could manage.

Screw the tube.

You were leaving in less than an hour, and would be in the back of your Mustang on your way to Bobby’s. Dr. Reyes was understandably concerned for your wounds, but you would rather leave now than risk Alioth finding you. If you needed to, you could check in to a new place in South Dakota. As long as it was away from here it didn’t matter.

Callie started changing your bandages one last time before you left, making sure you knew which wounds needed what kind of wrapping, that it would all be in the follow-up file they would send with you and on and on. You had to try stupidly hard to remember it all, but it was better than staying in this place, so you endured, partially comforted by the fact that it would all be written down.

Dr. Reyes had made it clear that ‘Someone’ (Alioth) had taken a torch to your soulmark. You’d been trying not to think about it while you waited for discharge, mindlessly playing the sudoku book Sam, who you liked almost instantly, brought by after lunch. He was smart and kind - and he offered to help you when you were out of the hospital, that he could stay in Bobby’s _other_ spare room. Although, he _did_ seem relieved when you let him know you wouldn’t need it. You had enough money to hire a nurse to come around once a day to help you change your bandages. Being psychic made you a very good poker player.

The worry about your soulmark was there all afternoon, though, despite the idle distractions you made for yourself.

You asked to look at it when Callie was changing the wrapping. 

You know, like an idiot.

You could still feel it under the pain and numbness. It wasn’t so shallow a connection that it was dependent on the skin above it. It was in your soul, after all, and the mark was just the spiritual made physical. It wouldn’ matter if it was damaged. You would be fine.

You repeated that to yourself as the Callie brought you a hand mirror, and held it so you could see the left side of your ribcage.

You almost screamed.

Your entire soulmark was gone.

 _Completely. Gone_.

All of it, replaced with a swath of discolored, grafted skin. The only bit left were thin, decorative wisps that barely brushed beyond the edges of your graft. But the important part - _the_ _name_ \- the strange name written in a dead language that kept you waiting for miracles when there were none to be found - it was gone.

You fought against any tears that were forming and stubbornly tried to avoid your feelings. This was stupid. It was just a pretty word on your side, you shouldn’t be so upset. You could still feel the warm glow of your connection, you would be _fine._ But there was still a gaping sinkhole in your chest.

It was thirty seconds before a tidal wave of grief hit you.

You crumpled in on yourself with a shriek, whole body wracked with painful, painful sobs that shook your frame and made all the hurting ten times worse. It felt like a part of you had been ripped out and thrown in the trash. Like a part of your soul was torn out with a rusty ice cream scoop, leaving raw, torn edges. An empty, burning, _ache_ rose in your chest and pushed out everything else, hollowing out your lungs and filling them up with a burning saltwater nebula.

There was a reason only serial killers went after soulmarks.

“It’s okay, honey, don’t you worry, okay? Marks are stubborn. Everything will be just fine in a few months, just you wait,” Callie shushed you through your snotty sobs and brought you tissues, trying her best to be reassuring as she hastily re-bandaged your side. “I’ve seen them regrow over scars, or somewhere else altogether, it’ll just take some time.”

But that hadn’t been the _point_.

Alioth wanted to hurt you and it had worked. It was violating and ruthless and it just felt _so wrong_ to the core of your being.

You wanted to _scream_.

Instead, you did nothing at all, opting to stare at the ceiling and let yourself grow numb as Callie changed the rest of your bandages. The roaring sea subsided eventually, leaving nothing but fog in its wake. You were empty.

You didn’t ask to look at the rest of your grafts and cuts. The room was quiet against the background shuffle of the hospital. You didn’t say goodbye to Callie when she left.

You shut your eyes as tight as you could and returned to the cocoon of your blankets, eyes still burning with fresh tears.

 _I’m_ so _sorry, Castiel._

_Wherever you are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m actually pretty proud of this story for once. I’m so excited to get to the good bits, we just have to get through the setup! So, let me know what you think so far! I’d love to hear some feedback. Anyone else out there a hoe for Dean Winchester? Cause I am! Who boy, and just wait until Cas shows up!  
> Until next time, thanks for reading!  
> Tumbr: [Starlight Soul Writing](https://starlightsoulwriting.tumblr.com/post/190969918373/constellations-against-skin-chapter-list)


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trials of living with your injuries begin and you and Dean make a bet.

There were lungs on the table.

Lungs that were outside of their body. On a steel table.

Man, Dean fucking hatedautopsies.

"Are you alright, Agent Mason?" The coroner, Dr. Sinha, looked at him, concerned. As if laying organs out on a table was normal or even remotely okay.

"I'm fine," He grunted, looking away from the steel tray where the nigh-completely incinerated lungs sat, instead focusing on a very peculiar black-brown stain on the floor. "Keep going."

The woman shrugged before gesturing at the body. Dean wasn’t sure if her subtle accent was British or not, but her words sounded airy coming out of her mouth. "As I was saying," She squished her fingers into an incision that circled its way around the organs, before peeling them open like butterflied chicken. The inside was basically charcoal, somehow squishy and crumbly at the same time. 

And there went Dean’s dinner plans. He could not eat a burger after seeing that. 

"Cause of death is pretty obvious. It's like someone poured lighter fluid into his lungs and lit him up. There was a sustained flame inside this man's body. Smoke inhalation doesn’t look like this." She turned and inspected the body on the other steel table. Her dark eyebrows furrowed, like she was convinced that if she looked hard enough she would find answers Dean knew weren’t there. "But there's no outward signs of any trauma. No wounds on his skin at all."

"Is there anything else off here, besides the obvious?" Sam asked, poking at a charred lung with a gloved hand. Dean smacked his hand away, giving him a look and a quiet ‘ _what the hell’._ Sam just kicked him in the back of the knee while the doctor was turned away, nearly making him fall on the floor. Sam, of course, composed himself before Dr. Sinha turned back around with a blood sample, leaving Dean looking like an idiot.

Dr. Sihna just ignored the commotion, thank god, raising her eyebrows with a smug smile instead. In her hand was a vial that normally held blood, but this sample was obviously super fucked up. "You mean like this?" 

The blood was green.

“Excuse me?” Sam’s jaw went a little slack, eyes widening. “That’s… Is that blood?”

Sinha nodded. “Straight from Mr. Doe himself.”

“Wait,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. He was too tired for this shit. “I thought that was just a Star Trek thing.”

“Star Trek? Seriously?” Sam looked like he was about to start making fun of him but Dr. Sinha spoke up before he could.

“It’s not just a Star Trek thing, no,” She peeled off her gloves and handed him a file-folder to look through. “Sulfhemoglobinemia. It’s rare - I’ve never encountered it in the field, so it was quite the shock when I went to do a tox screen and it came out green.” She gestured to the report, which Dean started leafing through. It was a lot of medical terms and a graph with one very tall spike labeled ‘Sulfur.’ “It’s caused by sulphur, either from direct exposure or medication, binding to hemoglobin. The amount in his system is off the charts. He should have died weeks ago.” She put the vial back in the fridge, pulling on a new pair of gloves.

“There’s no signs of cyanosis - oxygen deprivation. It leaves skin blue, normally. Of course, not in this case.” Dr. Sinha pulled the man’s lips back to reveal that his gums were still very much pink. “I can’t wait to write this up. Strangest body I’ve ever found.” She looked at Dean again and winked. “You’ve snagged a hell of a case, Mulder.”

“What can I say?” Dean gave her a lopsided, flirty grin back. “I like a good mystery.”

“Well, let me know if you solve this one.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a murmur. “It’ll look better for when I publish.”

“We’ll do our best, Doctor,” Sam started, grabbing on to Dean’s arm lightly as if to drag him out. “Thanks for all your help.”

“You’re welcome. It’s been interesting.”

Sam let go of his arm once they were out in the hallway. “We still think this guy’s just the meatsuit? I’ve never seen something like that.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, the sulphur might’ve just built up in his system for however long the demon’s been wearing him. I think. If that’s how it works.”

“Must’ve been a hell of a long time,” Sam scoffed.

“No kidding.”

A shrill, ringing phone screamed in Dean’s pocket, breaking the silence of the ME’s office. He answered just as they walked through the exit and into the overcast, windy day outside.

"Hello?"

"Dean?" You rasp through the phone. "Bobby and I are finished up at the hospital, we’re heading out."

\--

"Shouldn't you be resting?" You heard him ask.

“I mean, yes,” You sigh and carefully tug on an oversized hoodie from your luggage - all your things were thankfully still at the motel, including your car, which was a huge weight off your chest. That car was your _baby_. It’d been a hell of a time to restore. “But I can’t stay here when we don’t know where Alioth is.” 

“That’s fair,” Dean said. “Any other reason for the call, or is this just a heads up that y'all are ditching us?”

“Yeah, actually.” You hum and grab a filthy shirt from your personal effects and study it - the one you wore the night of the attack. It’d been bothering you since the nurse brought it back to you. Running your fingers along an odd oily patch in the fabric, your fingers were left tingling, almost like they were half-asleep. “Was there any oil at the crime scene? My clothes have giant blotches of the stuff.”

There was a moment of silence as he thought. “I think so. It _was_ an abandoned factory.”

“This stuff is just super weird.” You slash a scrap of fabric from the shirt with your pocket knife and shove it in a ziplock, the feeling of menthol and static lingering in your fingertips. You might be able to figure out what it was later. “It feels like old magic. Not sure what or why, though.”

“What does that even mean?" He muttered into the phone and you heard Sam say something. A sigh. "There were some spell ingredients on the floor. Probably picked some up.” 

“The demon was doing something shady, huh? What a surprise,” You scoff and mount your crutches, glancing back at the shabby motel room for the last time. Good fucking riddance.

“I don’t know how many answers you two are going to find, though.” You say softly, unsure if there was even anything left to find. You didn’t even know if any evidence they could find would even matter. You were content to forget everything that happened in this stupid town. What good would finding out what happened do, even, besides tell you whether Alioth had been exorcised or not.

Bobby was going to drive you to his house in _your_ , leaving the truck in the motel lot. He’d already helped you pack your meager duffel full of your laundry and you were completely ready to leave. 

You left the clothes from the crime scene in the trash where they belonged. They were absolutely ruined, and even if they hadn't been, you would’ve never been able to bring yourself to wear them again. “It might be a good idea to just fall back to Bobby’s and try to find the Colt. Solve both of our Demon Problems.”

The was silence and shuffling, and you heard the muffled voices of Dean and Sam talking - or were they arguing? After a moment Dean’s voice rang through the phone again. “If we don’t find anything more by tomorrow we’ll head back to Bobby's.”

“Alright.” You carefully navigate into the passenger seat of your Candy-Apple Red Mustang, shooing away Bobby’s attempts to help you in. _No way_ we're you accepting that. You were a stubborn bitch, and he’d already helped enough just by loading up all your shit. “I’ll be looking for demon omens in the meantime.”

Dean sighed. “You really should take it easy, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” You rolled your eyes, a smile growing on your face against your will. It was kind of cute that he cared, even if you had the feeling he would’ve said that to anyone that’d just gotten out of the hospital. But it was nice. “And if some punk put you in the hospital you would be fine letting everyone else do all the work?” You dig, knowing how most hunters, including yourself, could be about self care - absolutely horrible at it.

“Awfully bold of you to assume I can be hurt.” He shot back. Oh, you could practically hear the arrogant, uneven grin on his face. Cheeky.

“My mistake,” You chuckle before wincing as it moves the bandages rubbing against your ribs. “I didn’t know you’re secretly Achilles.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” He said, the pet name making you feel things you weren’t quite ready to deal with. A blush worked its way across your cheeks despite yourself. “I don’t have a weakness.”

Bobby rose his eyebrows at your stupid, lovestruck grin before he started your car. You ignored him, smiling still. “I’ll keep that in mind, Winchester.”

“Please do,” His voice was low and rough in your ear. God, that was everything. “See you two in a few days, then.”

“I look forward to it.” You said, and you really meant it.

The line went dead.

There was silence in the car until you reached over and turned on the radio. Your favorite music started blaring, and Bobby grimaced at the volume before he turned it down.

More silence. You yawned and settled in for the long drive home.

Huh. It’d been a while since you’ve called that place home.

“So…” He started, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes before turning back to the road. He looked awfully smug, which was never good, “Dean, huh?”

Oh, god, this was not happening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” He frew the syllables out, as if to rub in your face how much he didn’t believe you. “You haven't had moon-eyes like that since you left that Natalie girl in Wisconsin.”

“ _Bobby..._ ” You groan. He was not going to bring that stupid prom stunt into this, was he? “That was like ten years ago.”

He hummed all too knowingly. “Exactly.”

Shithead.

You would never admit that he’s right, of course.

“Hey, (Y/n)...” He started, voice almost hesitant. “You’re sure this all has nothing to do with… whatever the hell you were doing those three years away, right? We’re sure it’s Alioth?” 

Ah, shit, he went there. And your stomach just lodged itself into your throat.

“Yeah, Bobby. It was definitely Alioth. You heard what the boys said.” You forced out through strangling anxiety rising in your chest. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears and made everything else feel quiet.

He went quiet for a moment before he sighed, slapping his hand on the steering wheel. “Are you _ever_ gonna tell me what happened?” His voice was low and exasperated, and also soft at the same time, somehow, as if he was afraid of scaring you away. “You were missing, (Y/n). For _three entire, god-damn years_ , and you don’t expect me to want to know where you were? To not be bothered? I thought you'd gotten yourself killed!”

“You _know_ I can’t talk about it,” You said, curling into your seat more, facing the window instead of him, suddenly nauseous . You couldn’t look at him now. Not like this. If you looked him in the eyes your resolve might crumble away into nothing.

“What, you show up on my doorstep last year, half-dead and _catatonic_ , after years of _nothing_ , and you can’t tell me jack shit?”

“No,” You murmured, hiding as best you could when sharing a car with someone, covering your head with your arms. Hot tears pricked at your eyes. You shut them tight against the tears. You were _not_ going to cry. You promised yourself you would _never_ cry over Him. Him or anyone else from New York. They _didn’t deserve_ your tears. “I can’t.” Your voice cracked embarrassingly, but you didn’t care. You just wanted this conversation to be over.

Bobby let out a frustrated sigh and you knew that was the end of it. Thank god. You wiped at your face with your good hand, trailing off the tears that never fell, and stared steadfastly at the trees outside the window. Every once in a while you passed farms instead of woods.

The quiet hung in the car like an oppressive fog, stopping both of you from trying to speak. You didn’t bother complaining when Bobby changed the music sporadically, even if it drove you nuts. It wasn't worth it.

You had a pillow you jacked from the hospital under your head, and the gentle white noise of tires on asphalt had you drifting deeper and deeper into the veil of sleep.

You felt _so_ tired. Maybe Dean was right. You _should_ rest. 

A nap sounded really nice… 

… 

_A clear sky in the middle of summer. Sunny meadows and flying kites. Children laughing and chasing each other in the park._

_Gentle fingers carding through your hair as you lay your head on a steady chest. Soft grass underneath you._

_A warm voice._

_"You don't have to apologize to me, veleshenai. I'm the one who should apologize."_

_The sound of wings and ancient whispers carried along the wind. Familiar and strange, powerful and soft. Warm, like the feeling of sun on your skin._

_"I should’ve gotten to you sooner. But you're safe now."_

_A babbling brook somewhere in the distance. Songbirds. The smell of grass and pine and honeysuckles._

_"It'll be alright. You can rest now. I'll watch over you."_

_You could stay there forever._

_…_

You startled awake when the car jolted against a pothole.

Any memories you'd just formed faded away into obscurity with the rest of your forgotten dreams, leaving nothing behind but tinnitus and a lingering, heartbreaking echo of warmth in your soul. The more you tried to remember the more the feelings and sounds fell through your fingers like grains of sand.

By the time you sat up in your chair it was completely gone.

It was past dark in South Dakota, your Shelby’s headlights the only bright spot in the darkness of a lonely back road. Dark trees rushed past your window at blinding speeds, blurring into a solid green monolith lining the highway.

The first thing you felt was that everything _fucking hurt_. You bit back a groan, swallowing your painkiller without bothering to get water.

It better kick in fast.

“Hope you slept well, kid.” Bobby's voice echoed strangely against your ringing ears and felt like your head was being stabbed through. “We’re almost back at my place.”

You just nodded at him, looking forward to a bed you recognized. Bobby’s guest bed was cheap, and lumpy, and he refused to let you buy him a new one, but it was home. You smiled weakly. “I can order some delivery if you want me to. It’s the least I can do.”

He waved you off. “You know I hate that. I can handle my damn self.”

You don't know what else you expected.

You pulled up to his property not long later. The sight of an old made your stomach churn. You always felt bad going down the driveway of the yard and seeing once-beautiful cars left to rust. How many memories got eroded away by the wear of time.

But the junkyard gave you isolation when you needed it - it’d been home to more than one of your poorly thought-out, cocky shoot-offs with any and every hunter you could rope into it. When you were sixteen you shot some poor sap in the leg .And even though it _had_ been a ricochet, you weren’t allowed to sneak off with other guests for a year. 

You’d been alone by then, always on the move. But Bobby's had always stayed _home_ , no matter how long it far you strayed. It was worlds better than the group home, even with constant talk of killing monsters and drunk hunters and crazy stories. Here you could afford to be yourself, without the cruel judgment if your peers. Just Bobby. 

You were free - even with him shoving GED courses in your face nonstop. That was just about the only real education you’d ever gotten.

The car slowed to a stop in the garage, engine slowing down and then going quiet. You pulled yourself onto your crutches and out of the car, refusing to your spinning head stop you from walking by yourself. So you hobbled up the half-rotted wood stairs while Bobby hauled your duffel bag into his guest room. Even though you’d just slept you were already tired enough to crash, whether it was from the stress of your injuries, your pain meds, or both.

You didn’t have the energy to bring up how many empty alcohol bottles cluttered the tables inside the house. More than usual. Instead, you ate your canned soup in silence, idly looking for abnormal weather patterns on your laptop. Bobby was on the phone catching up on whatever hunter chatter he’d missed in the past two days.

You managed to towel-wash yourself well enough to not feel gross before you maneuvered yourself into the familiar, squeaky mattress in the guest room. _Your_ room in all but name at this point. You pulled the quilts tight over your head and closed your eyes, praying that sleep would take you quickly.

You just needed to get through the next month and a half.

It's funny.

Dean and Sam had probably spent a good amount of their childhood sleeping in this room, too. 

It was kind of infuriating, actually - how hard John tried to keep you away from his kids, even when all of you spent an inordinate amount of time at Bobby’s. 

How much planning had gone into that? How many last minute plan changes?

A familiar pain rang through your chest. The sting of rejection. You would think you'd be over it by now. After all, you barely even knew him. He'd made sure of that. You'd long since given up chasing the approval of someone who never cared.

But it still _hurt_. 

John thought you were a _freak._

Couldn't let his sons be tainted by your mere presence. God forbid you have friends or a sense of safety for once in your life.

You knew the only reason he ever helped you fight Alioth off all those times was because he thought the demon could lead him to Yellow Eyes. Alioth only ever mocked him about that. But you’d wanted the help. You wanted to live.

John saved your life and then dropped you like a sack of potatoes.

Bitch.

… 

You slept horribly.

Your stupid casts were all in the stupid way, you couldn't get comfortable for the life of you, every other hour you woke up in burning, throbbing pain, and you were sure that you could feel every last one of your bandages rubbing against your skin. 

At 5:46 in the morning you woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. So you gave in and got out of bed, slogging through your new morning routine. You had to brush your teeth sitting down.

At least you could make coffee and toast with one hand.

You sat down on the couch and scrolled through newspaper reports. looking for the standard demonic omens. Cattle mutilations and crop failures. But you also searched for any missing person/arson combos that happened since Saturday. 

For a demon, Alioth was _extremely_ flashy when he picked hosts. _Always_ upper-middle class men. Men that had fancy suits to steal and giant, overly expensive houses to light on fire.

You took only a small amount of comfort in the fact you found nothing.

\---

Sam and Dean found nothing.

There were no leads. No cameras anywhere near the factory where you'd been found. The body, while nuts, went nowhere. Even going by the crime scene again yielded nothing but the soot outline of a triangle shaped knife.

All they could really do was take photos of the blood sigil and gather some of the spell ingredients from the floor. Get the evidence back to you and Bobby, because the two of you had time to research wacko demon magic rituals, and he had monsters to kill.

On one hand, they could get back to taking cases that might actually go somewhere. Save people from spooks that were still around. 

On the other, now they knew that there were _more_ sociopath demons running around killing people. It didn’t exactly feel very good knowing the bastards were escalating. All the talk about a war coming and these 'special kids.' It left a hell of a pit in Dean's stomach.

He was left with the lingering feeling that all of this had been a big waste of time. He got to meet a hunter his own age, which was cool - they were few and far between, but that was about it. Everything was dead ends. They had no idea where that damn demon ran off to.

He couldn’t fault Bobby for dragging them out there, though. If the thing had still been there he would’ve needed backup.

He was still disappointed he didn't get to punch the bastard in his smarmy fucking face though. 

Was he projecting? Maybe. 

Did it matter? Not really.

He just drove, and listened to music, and didn't let his thoughts linger on things like that.

He got to Bobby’s place before Sam did. Since you couldn’t drive, there had been a bit of musical chairs that ended with his brother driving Bobby’s truck back to the house. Between Dean's lead foot and the Impala's engine he had a solid hour or two lead.

And you were arguing when he got there.

“Bobby, I am perfectly able to go to my workshop. You don’t have to bring anything into the damn kitchen.” You were sitting in one of the ratty chairs with your leg propped up on another, all crossed arms and pouting face. The bruises on your face were mostly gone by now, leaving you looking more tired than anything.

A toolbox full of god-knows what sat on the table in front of you. Gungy 1990’s stickers covered the surface almost entirely. Was that Lisa Frank or a just a rainbow? ACDC, NASA, all sorts of other acronyms he didn't understand, and a barely legible Terminator graphic on one side.

“Perfectly able? You can hardly get out of that chair and you think you can go down the rickety stairs to my basement?” Bobby drawled, and let a heavy, metal case _thunk_ onto the dining table next to the tool box. Dean felt the impact rattle in his bones. “No, either you let me help you down the damn stairs, don't start working, or I’m hauling everything else up!”

“Maybe try not having shitty stairs, genius!”

Dean cleared his throat, making you jump in your seat, eyes darting to him in surprise.

Damn, that blush on your face was cute. And you would absolutely kill him if he ever said as much, he just knew it. He tried not to stare at your lips, red from you worrying at them. His stomach did a flip and he had no idea if he was freaked out or, god forbid, smitten.

You still kind of gave him the heebie-jeebies, though. Just a little. But he would ignore it as long as you didn't root around in his brains. 

“Need any help?” He gave his signature, charming grin to the both of you. 

“Yes!” “No!” The two of you shouted at the same time. You resumed your staring match with Bobby, eyes on fire. Tense silence hung thick in the air and he swore he saw sparks start flying.

A look struck you like you just had an idea.

“Hey, Dean?” You sing-songed in a voice he recognized - the same one he used when he was about to annoy the shit out of Sam. You were about to be a smartass.

“Yeah?” He half-smiled, anticipation like static in his chest.

“D'ya mind helping me downstairs?” You say with a wry smile.

"You're fucking insufferable, kid." Bobby groaned and left the room, leaving you with a mischievous gleam in your eye. Apparently that was exactly how you wanted him to react. 

You sti

You stuck your tongue out at his back.

Dean recognized a fellow professional in the Fine Art of Being a Pain in the Ass when he saw one. He respected the hustle.

He sauntered over to you as you wobbled onto your crutches. “So what was all that about?”

You sighed as he walked with you to the half-rotten stairs that caused the argument in the first place. “You have ears.” You grumbled, but relented after his deadpan look. “Fine, fine.” You opened the door to the basement. “He just still acts like I’m a kid, sometimes. I -” You looked away from him and started chewing at your bottom lip again. “I tend to get pissed off when people try and help me too much, okay?”

You apparently decided to throw pride out the window, because you maneuvered yourself to sit at the top of the stairs, before scooting yourself down one stair at a time.

Well, that's one way to do that. 

Since you seemed to be determined to do this yourself, he grabbed the toolbox from the table that he assumed belonged to you.

“You two seem close,” He said, more of a question than anything else.

He waited awkwardly at the top of the stairs as you made your way down by yourself.

“Yeah,” You started up again when you made it to the bottom, and Dean followed when you were clear. “I mentioned before that John wanted me away from you two,” You yanked yourself upright using one hand on the bannister. “So when I started pestering him about hunting, he dropped me here. Half the time I was here and the other half I was on hunts with whatever poor sap I annoyed into letting me join them.” You shrugged and mounted your crutches, moving to a workbench in a cozy alcove off to the left. “Mostly badass ladies like Ellen for obvious reasons. But Bobby's taken care of me more than anybody else ever has.”

“He’s good at that, huh?” Dean murmured. It hurt more than he could admit that it was probably true for him, too.

You gave him a soft smile, tension visibly flowing out of your frame. You idly played with a coil of wire from the desk. “Yeah, he is.” He set the toolbox down next to you, and the delighted surprise on your face told him everything he needed to know. 

“Thanks.” A chuckle worked its way from your throat and his heart hammered harder than ever in his chest. You had a great smile. 

Shit, he was in trouble.

\---

“We’re goin’ do-own in an earlier round, and sugar we’re goin’ down swingin’~” You hummed along to the now-familiar track playing on the stereo. You were barely paying attention, though, your focus held tight by the project in your hands. 

You'd taken to customizing hunting weapons, charms, spell seals. There was a decent amount of money you could make helping other hunters - at least from the ones that were well off. You weren't stingy, though, if someone needed a charmed knife you would give it to them. 

Being forced home-bound for a few weeks could give you some time to build up inventory, and that's exactly what you were doing. The more you made from this, the less you had to win from poker games. And the less attention you drew to yourself, the better.

From the moment you could move your hands they were always doing something, whether it was drawing, or weaving, or, eventually, etching intricate designs into knife blades. You were prone to incorporating spells, runes, and magic into your art, even when that art was made with crayons. It'd been what caught John's attention the week before you met him - your parents had thought you were possessed.

Eventually you gave in and dove into magic-craft headfirst. You were accidentally doing shit anyway, might as well actually get something out of it.

You realized almost immediately that you were _super_ weird. Not that you didn’t already know that. But most of the spells you ‘just knew’ were _old_ magic. Magic that trailed all the way back to biblical times. Enochian seals you knew better than the back of your hand.

The language that flowed from your pen easier than water, it was the same as the one on your ribs - _used to be -_ on your ribs. The words felt powerful and ancient and so, so _right_ that sometimes you ached for a home that was never yours, but was actually your soulmate's. A soulmate you were pretty sure was never going to come.

You might've believed in angels, but you didn't dare believe you were special enough for them to come out of hiding.

You tried not to think about the fact your ribs were blank or that you were going to die alone.

Instead, you worked.

The weapon you engraved was relatively simple, by your standards. You just hoped it worked well. You didn’t have the energy or ingredients to do a more comprehensive spell right then. The seals would do most of the heavy lifting here, though, so it should be fine. You could always do a better ritual later.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs and then stopped. When you turned around there was none other than Sam Winchester himself standing at the bottom of the stairs. God, he's tall. "Hey," He smiled, eyes drifting to your work. "We're all here, ready to start planning?"

"Sure," You nodded, not looking up at him. "Just a minute, I gotta finish this inscription." Silver glinted in the low light of the basement as you carved the last few runes into the metal.

"Are those brass knuckles?" Sam quirked his brow, pulling up a chair and sitting next to you - close enough to talk easily without hovering. Humming a positive noise, you held the silver-coated punchers a bit farther away so you could see it better as a whole. 

Beside you, Sam's was bouncing his leg up and down, and he played with his own hands. "Um, do you mind if we talk?"

"We are talking." You winked. "But, nah, I don't mind. What's up?"

"I have… a lot of questions." His eyebrows raised and you swore your heart was going to explode. Puppy eyes. "But I guess the first one is how you know my dad. I read some vague stuff about the demon after you in his journal, but there's not much besides that."

You sighed. You knew this was coming sooner or later. "Your dad saved my life when I was a kid," You set down the brass knuckles and kept working. "The night Alioth killed my parents. Worked with him on a few exorcisms once I started hunting. It's not like I knew him all that well." You hissed, harsher than you meant to. You paused a moment, gathering yourself. You huffed before you spoke again. "He didn't like that I could see in his head. If you’re looking to know him better, I'm not the person to ask."

"That actually sounds exactly like him." Sam let out a humorless laugh and rubbed at his temples. "I'm sorry. About your parents."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile, chest tightening. "Thanks. I know."

His eyes widened a fraction. "Oh, um, because… powers?" He gestured to his temple.

You chuckled against your rising nerves, nudging his leg with yours "No, because anyone with a sense of decency says that, genius."

An embarrassed, adorable smile grew on his face. "Right."

Hehe, he had dimples.

"I can't hear you right now, by the way, in case you're worried." You set down your etcher before holding up your charmed necklace for him to see - a silver trinity knot you'd enchanted yourself. "This keeps things quiet for me - like earmuffs. It was a bitch to figure out the spellwork for it, though."

"So how does it work? Your... psychic thing, I mean. Not the necklace." He said the word psychic quietly, like he was afraid of it, head tilting in a way that reminded you of a sad labrador.

There's a story here that you're missing, huh? But this was important to him. You didn't need to read his mind to know that.

You closed your eyes and tried to think of a good analogy, hand fisting in the fabric of your sweatpants.

It came to you after a moment.

"Imagine… imagine you're in a cafeteria, right? You hear everyone talking all at once so you have no idea what anybody's saying," You opened your eyes and looked at him again. "But if you're having a conversation with someone right in front of you, you can hear them just fine because you're focused on them. Thoughts are exactly the same way."

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "And when did it start? The mind reading?"

Let's think. All events in your life fell under one of two categories. Before the fire, Alioth, and being orphaned. And after.

You moved back to the brass knuckles, narrowing your eyes at the seals. More wobbly than your usual standard. "Since before my house fire." You murmured, only half paying attention.

Sam made a weird strangled noise next to you and you looked at him with a worried expression. Was he okay? 

"You had a house fire?" He choked out before clearing his throat. " _And_ you’re psychic?"

"Yeah.” You raised an eyebrow at that. What did any of it matter? “And?"

He looked at the floor, the workbench, the ceiling. Anywhere but you. "I've recently met a few psychics who had nursery fires when they were six months old. All connected to the yellow-eyed demon."

Ah. That would do it.

"Honey, I was eight." You grabbed his hand in your good one. When he finally met your gaze again his eyes were glassy. "Whatever pattern you're looking for here isn't with me."

"You're sure? It starts with migraines, then there are nightmares, and-"

"Sam." You interrupted, getting his attention back on you.

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"Would you like me to make a charm for," You paused a moment, looking at him closely. He obviously felt uncomfortable. You would let him hide under the guise of worrying about a friend for now. "-for your friend?"

"He doesn't hear thoughts." He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes, voice thick with emotion. "I don't think it would help. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Okay," You said softly, squeezing his hand lightly before you turned back to the bench and put away your tools. "Let me know if he changes his mind."

He nodded and hair fell into his face. "I will."

You couldn't tell if you’d made him feel better or worse.

It only took five minutes for you to hobble up the stairs - enough time for Sam to regain composure. He didn't look like he was about to cry anymore, which was good. He didn't need to be teased by his brother.

"Finally," Dean groaned. "What the hell took you so long?"

You just stared at him.

At the look you and Sam gave him he rolled his eyes and went back to eating the deli sandwich in front of him. 

Oh, Bobby made lunch. Nice. 

"You know what? I don't even wanna know."

And he said that through mouthfuls of food. Classy.

You rolled your eyes at Dean and sat down at the table. "So anyone got any ideas besides just keeping track of omens?” Your cast made your leg stretch in an odd way, bumping up against Dean’s shins. Amazing. Not awkward at all. “Cause I don't, short of summoning the bastard, which is the last thing we wanna do, really."

Dean shrugged. 

Sam shook his head. 

"I think that's about all we _can_ do, kid.” Bobby sighed between sips of beer. “Wait for you to recover, keep track of omens, and try to nail down The Colt. Keep hunting in the meantime."

"Guess I'm playing research assistant for the next while." You sighed, before resting your hand on your heart like a lonely maiden from a Shakespeare play. "How am I supposed to live without the sweet, sweet freedom of the open road." You leaned back and put your arm over your eyes. "I will never again know the feeling of asphalt under my tires. My poor, beautiful car is destined to rot in the gara-"

"Oh, don't start this shit again, (Y/n)." Bobby grumbled. Dean laughed quietly, watching the exchange go down with no small amount of amusement. 

You stuck out your tongue at Bobby. "You're no fun."

"And you're a drama queen."

"Yeah," You held out your hands in a 'duh' gesture. "Cause it's funny."

He rolled his eyes at you. "And I've been hearing the same spiel for over ten years. Forgive me if I don't think it's funny the ten-thousandth time."

“You love me.”

“Whatever.”

A short silence took over the kitchen as you all ate.

Then Dean looked at you from across the table and raised his eyebrows, rougish smile playing across his stupid, beautiful face. "You said somethin’ about a beautiful car?”

You rested your chin on your palm, smirk playing across your face. “1968 Shelby GT500 KR, original engine, Candy Apple Red. With white _Le Mans_ stripes, of course”

A smooth whistle rolled from his lips and you tried not to stare at them too much. “Badass.” 

Sam gave you a grossed out look before he seemed to realize that the conversation was going nowhere, and he left with a short goodbye. Bobby followed, grumbling about ‘ _You two and your damn cars.’_

He probably knew you were about to get competitive. 

“Of course, nothing can beat my Impala." Dean smiled again, smug, green eyes catching in the sunlight streaming in from outside. Then he opened his mouth and interrupted your staring. "Black 1967 with a 327 engine.”

"I know, I've been in her a few times," You hum, rapping your fingers on the table. It _was_ John’s car, after all. He’d saved your life in that thing. 

And, well, you didn’t mean to brag, but… 

“Too bad she’s slower than Phoenix." You touched his arm lightly as if in consolation. The leather of his jacket felt soft against your fingertips. Your voice was low and your eyes were playful. Teasing. "We can clock a 13.7 second quarter-mile. Zero to sixty in 5.5 seconds.”

“But can you match that on the strip?” The cocky look was back on his face, leaning in closer to you and refusing to admit your car had better specs than his. You knew she did - you may or may not have checked before. “Record times don’t matter if you suck.”

“What makes you think I can’t drive, hmm?” You tilted your head, quirking your mouth and raising a brow.

A spark. An idea forming in your mind.

A predatory grin spread across your face in the next second, “You know what? Wanna put your money where your mouth is?” You held out your good hand for him to shake. “Drag race when I get out of this cast?”

“Deal.” He said instantly, the gears turning behind his eyes, expression darkening just as yours had. “Loser has to do whatever the winner wants for a day.”

“You’re on, Winchester.” You grabbed his hand, holding his challenging gaze for a moment before giving him a wink. “You better practice while you can. You'll need all the help you can get.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too much, sweetheart.” An arrogant chuckle left his lips. “Baby and I are going to destroy you."

"I don't know," You lean in even farther and at this point you could count the freckles on his face. "Phoenix and I give a pretty good ride." 

You could just eat him alive. And he looked like he thought the same of you, lips slightly parted, pupils half-blown. His low voice just about killed you.

A loud thunk startled you out of your trance, moment lost. Was that Bobby in the other room?

God damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I had to post this before I edit it into oblivion and drive myself insane.  
> Any, as always, I hope you enjoyed! Have a great day, and please give me some feedback! Your guys' comments mean the world to me, thank you so much for reading!


	4. Polaroid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes an incorrect assumption about you, and you start a case.

You were ready to cut and run before the end of the first week.

But naturally you couldn't. Because Fate liked messing with you, apparently.

It'd been over a year since you'd lived with a roommate and it was a hell of an adjustment. Bobby was fine, you were used to him. What really frustrated you was that you couldn't even do any housework.

You felt like a freeloader. 

So you took on fake FBI calls, connected hunters to resources, dug through mountains of lore, and tried not to feel bad about it. And even with all that, you still found time to work on your etchings.

But you were quickly running out of TV to watch when you couldn’t work. You can only watch T2 so many times before you did nothing but zone out. 

You tried to find out what ritual Alioth had been putting together, but no matter what books you combed through there was nothing. And you still hadn't heard back about the weird oil on your clothes. 

You'd sent it off to your friend, Sophie - one of the preeminent curse breakers in the US. If anyone could get answers it was her. But reaching out to someone like that also sent nerves swirling into your stomach. She was good at keeping secrets, you told yourself. Part of her job was discretion. You would be fine.

But using any contacts from the Continental's network was risky as hell. You'd managed to avoid the rest of the Morgans so far, but you had no way of knowing if they were looking for you. Looking for Echo. 

But you’d shed that name like snakeskin, leaving it behind with the ‘family’ you’d broken. No one would call you that ever again if you had anything to say about it.

You would just have to trust Sophie’s professional reputation for now, and wait.

And read.

And sketch spell seals.

And try not to die of boredom.

By the third week you were just itching to charge into the first freakin hunt that came your way. But you were still beholden to the whims of your _stupid goddamn cast_. You couldn’t even cook your own damn meals, let alone kill a vampire. 

You wanted to _scream._ Or bash your head against a wall. Or both.

And then you were reading.

And working.

And impersonating officers of the law on the phone. 

Fun times.

At least Dean called about twice a week - at this point you were living vicariously through the Winchesters. And he was so fucking smug about it, too. But he was always happy to brag, so he indulged you and wove not-entirely-accurate stories of the hunts they’ve been on. He made himself out to be some big bad hero, of course, but that kind of made you like them better. 

They even took down the ghost of a serial killer - and you were friggin _pissed_ you weren’t there. How come they got to do all the cool stuff? You wanted to kill a serial killer.

It was embarrassing how much you loved those calls. At this point if Dean showed up at the house you would probably jump him. If your nerves and better judgment didn’t stop you.

You had three more weeks of horrible boredom to look forward to. Yay.

And so you worked.

And you prayed out of nothing more than habit.

And you searched for demonic omens.

At some point you actually found an old Gameboy you stole when you were fifteen. You’ve started seeing Tetris blocks in your dreams.

At five weeks you were practically vibrating out of your casts for all the pent up energy in your system.

Just one more week… 

… 

You nearly cried when you visited Sioux Falls General and they took the casts off.

Sweet, sweet, freedom.

And what did you do with your sweet, sweet, freedom?

Well, first off, you made sweets.

Bobby's kitchen, July 25th. A full six weeks after the attack. Overcast clouds rumbled outside with the summer storms on the horizon. The incandescent bulbs of Bobby’s old lights hummed on in the kitchen, lighting up the peaceful midmorning. You’d put an oldies station on the radio; the rhythms of the fifties and sixties floated through the air around you, and you’d opened up the window to let the breeze through. The house was too stuffy as it was.

So you hummed softly and swayed side to side, heartbeat slow and smooth. Calm. 

Now that you had use of both your hands, you could actually cook. 

You carefully draped pie dough over a ceramic dish before pressing it into the sides and fluting the top edge with your fingers. It was a messy job, your hand was still shaky and sore, but it would do its job just fine. You opened the oven door, sliding in the crust to bake by itself before you turned your attention to the sweet, gooey filling.

Pecan pie was your absolute favorite. 

You didn't like to admit you could bake - you were a tough, badass hunter. You had a reputation to uphold, you couldn't be seen being domestic! The rumor mill was vicious, and you knew it would only end up with bro-dude hunters giving you shit. You already caught enough flack as it was, and you didn’t need any more.

But you _did_ have a hell of a sweet tooth. And store-bought just can’t compare to something homemade. As soon as you had access to a real kitchen at Bobby’s place, you'd made up for lost time and taught yourself how to bake. He sure wasn’t going to complain - he got to eat what you made, too.

Although one time you forgot cookies in the oven and almost burned the house down. But that was just the once.

This would be the last chance you had to indulge for a while - you were going to start hunting again tomorrow. At least you hoped you would. It depended on whether you could find a case or not.

For now, though, you pulled the crust out of the oven, pouring in the filling and the pecans before putting it back to finish baking. The smell of gooey caramel was filling the house already, leaving your tongue watering. It had been too long since you’d enjoyed yourself. 

Forty-five minutes on the timer. 

You’d just started scrubbing out your mixing bowls when there was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it!" Bobby shouted from the other room and went to answer, footsteps squeaking along the floorboards as he went.

"Hey, Bobby! Figured we'd stop by since we were close." A familiar voice rang through the house.

Oh no.

You were covered in flour, you had water splashed on your shirt from the sink, your hair was in a bandana of all things, and you were wearing a ratty tank top and sweatpants.

And Dean was there. Fantastic.

So you steadfastly ignored the conversation slowly drifting closer to you, continuing to clean the pan you’d used to make the filling, hoping that if you were quiet enough they wouldn't notice you. Because that made perfect sense.

"What smells so good?"

You squeaked, turning around to see Dean leaning against the kitchen door frame, while Bobby and Sam spoke in the living room behind him - something about vampires? 

You cleared your throat and gave your best, stilted attempt at leaning casually against the counter. Your hand landed in a gross glob of flour, but you smiled anyway. "Pecan Pie." And your voice just cracked. Wonderful. God, you sounded like a wounded animal.

"There's pie?" The excited expression that lit up his face made your heart race to light speed. _Shit_ , he was _so_ cute and you were _so_ screwed. 

"It's not done yet." You nodded at the oven, butterflies almost escaping your stomach and lodging in your throat instead. Were you blushing already? You hoped you weren’t blushing already.

“I'm gonna go get cleaned up." You blurted out and left the room before he could respond, completely forgetting about the photo collection you’d left on the kitchen table. 

Real fuckin smooth. 

It’s official: You were a wimp and a fool and a coward. You bit back the frustrated growl threatening to leave your throat, and you rubbed at your temples. You were supposed to be cool, damnit! Just ask him out, what's wrong with you?

But he made your insides go all oogey-goey and your limbs feel like jelly and no one in your entire, fucked-up life had ever done that. You don’t think you could emotionally handle a one night stand with him, no matter how desperately you wanted to take him to bed. There was no way it would end well, not with your heart doing backflips at the mere mention of his name.

And Dean wasn’t exactly the relationship type. Neither were you really, but _god,_ did you want to be, if only until it eventually blew up. Fuck.

It would be better for everyone to just do nothing at all.

So you kept muttering your misfortunes as you got dressed, shifting carefully into your jeans. Your leg was mostly healed, but it was still sore when you moved and wearing jeans was hard. Ugh.

You tried not to look at your empty ribs when you changed your shirt, but you caught sight of them anyway. It still made you feel like you’d been stabbed in the heart, but you swallowed the feeling down and shoved it aside behind as many emotional barricades as you could muster. 

You could feel bad later. Always later.

It's not like soulmark would’ve ever lead to anything, anyway.

\---

You’d ran away from him. For real. 

He would’ve laughed at the panicked look on your face if it didn’t actually sting a bit. But shit, you were cute looking all domestic like that. The sight of you baking, in lounge clothes and covered in flour? It made the part of him that wanted the white picket fence life scream.

It was in his head now and would probably haunt his dreams.

Instead of lingering on his wounded pride and your rapid escape, Dean just sat down at the table, grabbing a beer from the fridge on the way.

“Beer ain’t free, kid,” Bobby called from the living room but Dean just waved him off.

“We’ll buy you some more.”

“With what cash?” That was Sam, with a scoff.

Thanks for pointing out how broke they were, jackass.

Dean rolled his eyes and decided to ignore them as they went back to their conversation. Just talking about the vamp nest they took out in Iowa. Not a big deal.

But the beat-up, mod-podged shoebox on the table full of old Polaroids? _That_ was a big deal.

It was crumpled in the corners and smelled like dust and old paper, and the paper glued on the sides was a but-ugly, neon pink mess. And Dean wanted to snoop more than anything else in the world. So he did.

He pulled the box closer to rifle through the loose photos near the top. Random shots of diners and a few mountains, a few people he didn’t know - and _there_ was the one you took of him and Sam before they left. He curled his lip a little at that, cheeks going slightly pink. It was _the least_ flattering photo of himself he'd ever seen - he had Sam trapped in a headlock and both of them had stupid, panicked expressions in their face. Why the hell you wanted a picture like that was way beyond him. He was half tempted to burn it.

He dug a bit deeper and found even more photos of strangers. And there were names and descriptions on the back of each one.

 _Annalise Nocte. Incel Werewolf, 6/7/06._ A cute, smiling redhead with freckles covering her cheeks. Younger than any of you by at least five years, probably in college. Wearing a denim jacket and white sundress in front of the bookstore from Ridgeview. That was just a day before your attack. He didn’t remember talking to her during your case.

 _Joseph and Sarah Hoffman. Rave ghost. 10/23/05._ Siblings, obviously, they could half-pass as twins. Mid-twenties, pale as hell, both had blue-grey eyes and hair dyed wacky colors. The girl had deep purple hair, multiple piercings, and a tattoo on her collarbone. The guy's hair was a midnight blue-black, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He wore a nerdy t-shirt referencing some show Dean didn’t watch. Both of them wore hiking backpacks, and the photo’d been taken in the woods.

 _Fareeha Suri. Jealous Witch. 2/19/06._ The woman in this photo was in her mid-forties and cooking something bright yellow with lots of vegetables in a stew pot, inside a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been renovated since the seventies. She had rich brown skin and deep black hair, and tired but kind eyes. The photo'd just barely caught kids running around in the background.

Were these all people you’d saved?

Under the loose polaroids was a thick, leather-bound book, an earthy blue color. An etched silver plate hammered into the front was the only decoration. 

_‘Memories'_

Dean opened it and had to fight back an amused snort. It was all pictures of you! Some were selfies, of course, but some of them had been taken by someone else. There were even a few of a grumpy-looking, fourteen year old version of you that wore all black and a ton of eyeliner.

He skimmed through it, idly smiling, wanting to get to the more recent stuff - there were a few of a younger Jo and Ellen, and one or two of his dad, even - and lots of Bobby, yourself, and a too many other hunters he didn’t recognize.

His heart just about shriveled up and died when he stopped on one page though.

_‘The Prom Crashing of Hillcrest High, 1995’_

And there you were, wearing a deep blue prom dress, an official photo and everything. Your hair was done, you were actually wearing makeup.

And you were on a date with a girl.

A girl that was very visibly kissing your neck in the bottom right selfie in the spread. And that you were kissing on the lips in the left photo.

You looked happy.

And Dean felt childish jealousy burning in his chest.

So he shut the book harder than he needed to, and put it back where it belonged, and downed the rest of his beer in one go. He only barely choked on it, too. And _then_ he went to the living room, ignoring the fact that his face was bright red and his heart was in actual pain and he was so, so, _totally,_ screwed, and that he was just looking for distractions at this point.

It hurt. He hated to admit it, even to just himself, but it did. He’d never exactly thought that his ~~major~~ little crush on you would have ever led to anything, anyway. Hunters didn’t do relationships. Dean knew that. He agreed with that. There were good reasons for it.

But you were Awesome with a capital A. A badass, capable woman that gave as good as you got, and looked great in a leather jacket. Who kept up with his banter, and got him on a level he hadn’t felt understood on since… forever. And that wasn’t even mentioning the almost magnetic pull he felt from his soulmark whenever he was around you. He’d never stocked that much faith in romance or fate, but if it wasn’t for the fact his only mark was a familial blue writing out Sam’s name, he wouldn’t have doubted for a second you were the one. You made him feel like he was going to explode. But like, in a good way. Like his chest was too full of stuff.

And it killed him. _You_ killed him. Your phone calls had been something to look forward to for the past month and a half. He’d gotten to show off and snark and laugh and _relax_ with someone that wasn’t his goddamn brother for once in his life and it had been amazing and Dean hated to admit it but he’d wanted to jump you the moment you challenged him to a drag race. But he’d stopped himself, acting like a responsible human being for once - you’d still been hurt. You could barely walk around the house. It would’ve been a horrible idea. 

And Dean could be patient when he wanted to be. But there was no amount of patience in the world that would fix _this._ No amount of waiting would make you stop being gay. 

He wanted to crawl into the forest, lie down, and become one with the moss. Maybe with some intermittent screaming if he felt up to it. 

Instead he just rubbed at the bridge of his nose and took some deep breaths. 

He was so _fucking_ screwed _._

\---

"This pie is delicious." Dean mumbled through mouthfuls, still not looking at you for longer than a few seconds at a time. 

You were starting to get ticked off.

You rolled your eyes at the same time as Sam did, laying back against the couch and crossing your arms. _Fine,_ you wouldn’t look at him either. It’s not like you wanted to, anyway. His face was stupid. And absolutely gorgeous. But you were trying not to focus on that bit when he could barely stand to look at you.

See, this is what happened when you were seen being domestic. You’d completely ruined your reputation.

"Dude, seriously?" Sam’s nose crinkled up and he furrowed his brow.

"But it's good!"

Sam looked grossed out.

"Thanks," You smiled tightly, only glancing at Dean for a second before looking back at the baseball game none of you actually cared about. "I would tell you we have more but I only made the one." 

Dean shrugged and kept eating, seeming to enjoy himself well enough without you.

No, you weren’t going to be jealous of a pie. No way in hell would that ever happen. Especially not a pie you’d made yourself. Great. Definitely not.

There was a long silence.

And then Bobby’s phone went off and you winced. That goddamn piece of shit ringing sounded like nails on a chalkboard, after so many days in this place. If you heard it one more time you were gonna leave this damn place early, you swore. 

Bobby didn't look very happy when he came back in. "Well, boys, it’s your lucky day. I’ve got a case."

You turned your entire body to face him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, all preoccupations on why Dean was being weird leaving your mind all at once. "What kind of case?"

He shook his head and rolled his eyes at you. He _rolled his fucking eyes_ _at you._ "The kind of case you're not taking."

That just about set you off all on it’s own, your face blooming hot and tension shooting through you to coil around your chest. "Seriously?” You gave him the same look you gave the people you used to interrogate. Hard, and cold, and reasonably terrifying. “I can handle myself."

He didn’t even seem to notice. The ringing started in your ears.

"You _just_ had your cast taken off, there's no way you're going hunting alone, not like this." He turned to the boys, ignoring your point altogether and acting like you didn’t exist. "Suspicious death in Colorado. Witness says he saw a disappearing, ghostly woman."

Mother. Fucker. 

The ringing became screaming sharpness in your head and the inside of your head was suddenly bursting with bright, blinding light that pushed out all other thoughts.

“I can take a salt and burn," You hissed, closing your eyes tight against the brightness that only existed inside you, fists clenching into the couch pillow next to you, nails almost ripping through the fabric. 

When you opened your eyes the noise had started coating the world in shaky, blurry colors and if you didn’t calm down soon things would get ugly. 

"No, you can't." He pointed his finger at you like you were fourteen and he could tell you what to do. 

He couldn’t tell you what to do even when you _were_ fourteen!

You stood up, mouth curling to form charged words, everything around you too slow and too fast all at once. There was nothing in your head but the ringing now. "That's not for you to decide!"

"It doesn't matter, you're not ready."

"The hell I'm not." You said low and hard and pointed, like the edge of a dagger. 

Then you shut your eyes _hard_ , and bolted to your room, breathing coming in sharp and you could feel the whole room around you shaking and you weren’t sure if it was just you or if it was being caused by you but everything was just so _loud_ and you crumpled up in the corner of your room and you could feel _everything_ for _miles_ and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt and you wanted to claw out your eyes your head was going to _explode_ _everything was so loud -_

A hand on your shoulder made everything suddenly go quiet.

_Dean._

You just about cried in relief, opening your eyes to beautiful green eyes. "You good, princess?"

It was half facetious and somehow still exactly what you needed. And the world around was blessedly calm, the ringing, somehow, chased away by his touch.

You wiped at your eyes and gave him a weak thumbs up. "Never better."

He smiled and helped you up, before he went to lean on the wall. You started to throw your clothes into a duffel bag, turning away from him. He probably had no idea what had really just happened, how close you’d been to causing real problems for everyone. To him it probably just seemed like you were upset.

"You don't have to pack up and leave, okay?” His casual tone confirmed your suspicions. It was probably for the best he didn’t know, anyway. “You said it yourself, Bobby still handles you with kid gloves. He’s just worried."

"You don't get it." You sighed and flopped onto the bed. You met his gaze just the once before you rubbed at your eyes, fighting a massive incoming migraine. You haven't had an episode like that in about a year, and you’d almost forgotten how peircing the pain in your temples could be. "I've already been here too long.” Which was true, you had been. “I need to leave anyway." Also true. 

Like you said earlier, you didn’t know if there were people after you. Or demons. Either one was a real possibility.

"Okay, how about, instead of diving right back into the game after almost two months off,” He looked at you like he’d just had the smartest idea in the world. “We ease you back into it? That way everybody's happy."

You gave a sarcastic bark of a laugh. "Can't exactly ease back into hunting, genius."

"Uh, yeah, you can,” He said plainly and raised his eyebrows. “You work as a team and have someone to watch your back while you get your sea legs back."

"Dean,” You covered your face with your hands and let yourself fall back onto the bed, dejected. “I don't have any friends."

"What the hell am I, then, chopped liver?"

Oh my god, you’d really just said that. And he actually looked hurt.

Shit. 

You rolled over and wiggled your way to the other side of the bed, burying your face in your pillow to hide your blushing face. You probably looked ridiculous and childish, but you didn’t care. You were so fucking stupid. "I dunno, I figured I was just some random hunter. Not worth bothering with." You mumbled into the fabric.

If only you could dig yourself into a large hole and never be seen again.

He only laughed at you, though, which was something. "Why the hell else would I call so often?" 

You shrugged, still wanting very much to disappear. Then pain burst through your ear, and you turned over with a girly shriek. “What the hell was that for?!” He’d flicked you in the ear! “That fucking hurt, jackass!”

You kicked him in the shin as best you could from your position on the bed.

Oh my _god_ , he was still laughing at you. “Got you out of your head though.”

“Asshole.” You muttered and stood up again, grabbing more of your belongings.

“ _Anyway,_ ” He started, acting like all this was completely normal behavior toward peers. Rude. “Bobby wants to know you’re safe, and you want to hunt.”

“Yes, I know about the argument I just had.” 

“Hey, I’m trying to help here.” 

“Okay, fine.” You glanced back at him for only a moment before you relented, forcing yourself to relax your frame. You didn’t need to be on edge here. You were safe.

"I think that you should come on this ghost hunt with Sammy and I. That way Bobby's not worrying and you get to stay Miss Independent.” He quirked his eyebrows and you were gone. You could not stay mad at this man. “Promise we won't cramp your style."

Oh my god, like you would ever say no to that.

"Okay," A smile worked its way across your face despite yourself. "But just one hunt."

"One hunt." He smiled again then, and holy shit it took all your willpower not to push him against the wall and kiss him _hard._ That voice was going to haunt you in your dreams. “And then we go to the drag strip, where I’m gonna kick your ass.”

And he was back to smack talk.

“Oh, I am going to leave the Impala in the dust, what are you talking about!” 

If you didn’t have a heart attack before you got the chance. At this rate it was becoming a real possibility Dean Winchester would actually kill you one of these days.

But for now you would pack your things and climb into the back seat of the Impala for your first salt and burn in months, giddy excitement running around your veins like sparklers.

An hour later the three of you were gone, reading what little information Bobby had written down. "Are we sure this isn't the Joker?" You tilted your head to the side at the paper in front of you.

"Well, considering there were cold spots and flickering lights, I'd say it's definitely not." Sam turned around with a skeptical look from the front seat. You were in the back, legs laid out across the entire bench. You wiggled your toes intermittently, stupidly happy to be able to move everything again. “Besides, I don't think that's the Joker's M.O.”

You pursed your lips at that. “Are you sure? I could’ve sworn he did the whole Glasgow Smile thing.”

“No, he used poison. I think you’re thinking of a different serial killer.”

"What the hell are you two talking about?" Dean piped in.

"The case," You started. "Frat boy killed in his own bedroom. Found with a smile cut into his face. Roommate says there was a woman standing over the body that disappeared into thin air."

"That smile's gotta mean something about her death, you think?”

You just shrugged. “Probably.”

The drive felt like it took _forever_ , even though you'd driven longer by yourself before. But you can only play the Alphabet Game so many times before it gets old (and before you got tired of Sam beating you at it). By the time you got there you'd even considered breaking out Never Have I Ever, which would have been a disaster, probably.

Pikes College was a small community school a few hours outside of Fort Collins, Colorado. It was just about the only reason the small town of Pemberton was on the map at all. About ten-thousand students attended, and it had only a handful of Greek Life chapters. Kappa Delta Alpha was the only fraternity chapter to have an actual house. 

And Corey Matheson, a third year pledge, had been stabbed to death and mutilated in his bed a week before the fall semester started. He was a business major, well liked, and, according to his fraternity brothers, had big plans for his life.

But before the three of you went to the crime scene, you had to check out a motel room and get some sleep. It was pushing eight thirty at night, no way were you getting into the scene this late. And the ME’s office was closed already, which was a bummer. You would have to start fresh in the morning.

The motel was dingy and smelled like dust, but that was par for the course. Water stains trailed down the wall behind the desk, too, leaving gross brown residue on the drywall. You just hoped that didn't reflect the quality of this place's plumbing. You didn’t plan on taking a cold shower.

The man behind the counter, Lewis, slumped in his chair and looked half-asleep, staring blankly at the computer monitor. He barely looked at you when you walked up to the counter. 

“Two rooms, please.” You chirpped genially, face going a tad Stepford Wives, and started pulling out one of your fake IDs and some cash.

He nodded slowly and started typing - at about three words a minute. Drawn out silence interrupted by lonely keystrokes. After about ten-thousand years he stopped and glanced at you, shrugging. “Only got the one. Buncha families in town for move-in week, I’m all booked.”

You sighed and looked back at the boys. The resigned look on Sam’s face gave you the permission you needed, so you turned around with slumped shoulders. “One room, then. Thanks.”

“Enjoy your stay.” He yawned out, slapping a pair of keycards down on the counter.

“I’ll try.” You laid down enough cash for three days and picked up the cards, plodding back over to the boys before all of you walked to your room. “Rock Paper Scissors for who sleeps on the floor?”

“(Y/n), no.” Sam looked at you like you’re nuts. “You obviously get one of the beds, you’re still recovering. Dean and I can take turns on the other one.” He elbowed Dean in the side. “Right, Dean?”

“Uh, right.” He seemed caught off guard, like he wasn’t paying attention at all. Had he just been zoned out the whole time? Really? “Sure.” 

The wallpaper of your room was peeling off the walls, and the neon blue polka dot pattern was an affront to god and nature, but there were beds, and a shower, and that's all that really mattered. You plopped your duffel down on the bed on the far side of the room. When you looked back at the boys they were in a heated game of rock paper scissors.

Dean lost.

Sam laughed, “Again with the scissors?”

Dean just grumbled about his loss underneath his breath as he pulled out some sweatpants. You chuckled at them under your breath as you crossed the room, calling dibs on the first shower, sleep clothes in hand. There was no way you were wearing your normal pajamas with the boys sharing your room. You settled for soft knit joggers and a t-shirt.

You were pleasantly surprised to find that the hot water actually worked, thank god. Fifteen minutes later you were sitting on your bed in the main room - Sam took second shower. You were absent-mindedly patting your hair with a towel with one hand and digging through your bag for your rosary with the other. You could’ve sworn you put it in the side pocket with your med pack. There was no way you’d left it behind at Bobby’s.

A sigh of relief left you when you felt the familiar plastic against your fingertips, pulling out the fraying string of neon-pink plastic beads from your bag. You quickly glanced at Dean. He was busy disassembling his FBI gun, cleaning it on the tiny motel table by the door.

Good. You didn’t need to be made fun of.

You weren’t Catholic, not since you left the Nuns at the group home. But there was one particular prayer you never stopped. It was childish, maybe, and you felt like you were talking into an empty room and waiting endlessly for a response, but you still hoped that they heard you, wherever they were off to.

You clutched the plastic cross tight in both hands, closed your eyes, and started whispering in Latin. _“Angele dei, Qui custos es mei, Castiel_ , _Me tibi commi-”_

“Are you praying?” 

Of course he interrupted you.

The look you gave him could melt ice. He just looked a bit incredulous.

“Yes.” You forced out through clenched teeth, you could hear your heartbeat from your ears, face going red. You _really_ didn’t want to explain the deeper reasons behind this besides just habit. He would think you were crazy-bonkers. “The group home I was raised in was run by a Convent.” You stared at the sheets instead of Dean. “You know what they say about old habits.” You murmured, just waiting for him to ask more questions that would expose just how nuts you probably were.

Those questions never came, though. Dean seemed to accept your answer for the half-truth it was, and went back to cleaning his gun.

So you gripped the first thing you’d ever owned after the fire, running your fingers over the worn beads, and finished your nightly prayer to your soulmate.

Wherever they were.

> _Angel of God,_
> 
> _My guardian dear, Castiel,_
> 
> _To whom their love commits me here;_
> 
> _Ever this night be at my side,_
> 
> _To light and guard, to rule and guide._
> 
> _Amen._
> 
> _… I wish you could be here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Dean makes an assumption in this chapter that isn't entirely correct but isn't entirely incorrect. Poor guy thinks you don't like men, and he's very confused about you because of it. Based on their upbringing, I doubt Dean really thinks of Bi people much, unless he's directly told to his face that someone swings both ways. So he assumes you Only Like Women, because that's what makes the most sense to him at the moment. And so he's trying to be a good friend. This misunderstanding will be rectified in a few chapters, but for now, there'll be a lot of pining and moon-eyes, and Sam will be annoyed at how obvious the both of you are.  
> The prayer the reader is reciting at the end is a slightly altered Angele Dei prayer, also known as the Prayer to One's Guardian Angel. All in it's original Latin, of course, cause Reader is just Like That. It resonated with her for obvious reasons. She's done this every night for literally years, and the rosary (neon pink and glow in the dark - and yes, you can buy rosaries like that IRL) was the first thing ever given to her at the group home. It's literally the first thing she ever owned herself - the rest of it burned down in the fire.  
> Also if anyone has guesses as to what reader was up to in New York I would be down, although there isn't all that much to go on right now lol. But trust me the wait for answers is going to be worth it.  
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! Have a great week, wash your hands, and stay safe! :)


	5. Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You start your new case with the boys and flirt your way into a crime scene. Dean seems stressed about something.

You and Sam bolt awake at the exact same time the next morning, half past three.

You’re in a cold sweat, fire and grief rushing through your chest and holding your heart in a chokehold. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding too-loud in your ears and felt tears burning on the edge of your eyes.

And on the bed across from you was Sam, sat awake in exactly the same way, the glow of the neon sign outside outlining him in pale blue. His breaths came out in short, shallow pants, and if you’d bothered to look hard enough you would have seen the sheen of sweat and not-shed tears on him.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment.

"Did you-" He started, a concerned upturn taking over his brows before took a deep breath, seeming to steady himself. "Did you see all that?"

"Yeah," You said softly, throwing off your sheets and curling your arms around your knees. It was too hot all of a sudden. "Sorry."

You didn't know what else you could possibly say to him. Someone else's dream had never been so _loud_ before - it completely ignored the charm you still wore around your neck, pounding against the inside of your skull like drums, almost desperate to escape. Unfamiliar energy permeated the thoughts like oil on a shirt that refused to wash out. But it was energy that wasn’t Sam’s. It felt like acid poured down your throat and the smell of blood, instead of sea-breeze and old parchment like you would expect of something coming out of Sam’s head.

Something real weird was going on here.

But you’d experienced the nightmare just as he had, regardless of where it came from.

So, yeah, you felt bad for feeling all of this. For reliving how his soulmate had died right in front of your eyes. Sam’s eyes. And that hadn’t been yours to see. But you felt like crying for her nonetheless, like his grief was your own, threatening to swallow you up. You were so going to puke if you didn’t calm down here.

There was a reason you wore the necklace. To prevent yourself from feeling everyone else's shit. You put your forehead on the clammy skin of your arms that were still resting against your knees, and took a few deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself. You were okay. Your soulmate was not on fire on some dorm ceiling.

"Please don’t tell Dean." Sam's voice brought you out of yourself, and his voice sounded uncharacteristically small in the darkness of the early morning.

“That you had a nightmare?” You whispered back, sparing a glance at Dean - you were just barely able to make out his form near the TV stand, where he was currently sleeping like a log.

“I don’t want him to worry, okay?" Exasperated, tired and concerned all at once. "Please, just… leave it be.”

“Of course,” You murmured, staring blankly into the darkness and massaging at the tension coiled in your shoulders. “But how often does this happen, exactly?”

He was quiet for a moment, and almost sounded sheepish. “Almost every night,” You just barely caught the words. “Sorry.”

Great. Just your luck.

Even more reason to solve this case fast, you guess.

You scrunched up your whole face in an ugly way. “I guess we’re both sorry, huh?” 

You figured you might as well do something and rolled out of bed, kneeling next to your bag and feeling around for the soft paper of an old book and a reading light.

“Yeah.” Sam stood up behind you and quietly padded to the bathroom, getting changed into gym clothes and leaving not long after. All he gave you was a quick, awkward wave goodbye before he went for a run. 

You just sighed and settled into the crackley hotel sheets, opening your book and letting the familiar words relax you even as Dean snored in the background.

Sam still wasn’t back by five am, when you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore despite your resolution to wait up for him. But your head was bobbing up and down, eyes pulling closed like they were glued to lead weights, and you were falling asleep for seconds, maybe minutes at a time before jarring yourself back awake, just to repeat the cycle again. 

Eventually your eyes sealed shut and you didn't open them again until the next morning.

…

But when you woke up to your alarm at six-thirty, cheek still smashed against the book you fell asleep on, Sam was already sitting at the tiny motel table, already up and dressed in his cheap FBI outfit. Probably didn’t get any more rest last night judging by the bags under his eyes.

How he pulled off the Fed thing with that hair was a mystery to you. He didn't even comb it back.

You yawned loudly and blearily pushed yourself up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. Dean was doing the same on the floor, cracking like ten joints as he stretched out. Ow.

He commented on his brother’s early start, and you said nothing. Minded your own business and unfolded your suit in silence, even when Dean asked him what was wrong. You weren’t one to spill personal business - not anymore. It was Sam’s job to deal with it, not yours. 

Ever since you'd gotten back to hunting last year you'd been more tight-lipped than you'd ever been. Told yourself you would never tell secrets that weren’t yours ever again, unless keeping your mouth shut would get someone hurt. And Sam having nightmares wasn’t going to hurt anyone but you.

So you held your tongue.

Didn’t mean you weren’t worried about him, though, especially when you were going to suffer through it with him for the time being. But you didn’t know how much you could do to help even if you tried. As much you could do with your powers, you couldn’t stop nightmares. Just live through them.

You rubbed at the knot in your neck from falling asleep on your book and went to the bathroom, resolving as you brushed your teeth to be quick about this hunt. You were going to go crazy if you stayed with the Winchesters for too long, you just knew it, between sleep deprivation and near constant Dean-induced heart palpitations. You were so fucked.

Shrugging on your too-crisp white button up, you cringed at the feeling of the stiff cotton. It was unwavering, and wrinkled weirdly when you moved, and the whole Fed getup just made you feel like some goody-two-shoes local politician. Or like you were back in that relentless fucking Catholic school. 

But dressing up was just as much as part of the job as anything else. Unfortunately. So you dealt with the indignity of wearing businessman's wool for the sake of the case. You weren't a coward. You could handle wearing a blazer for a few hours. Totally. Not a problem. Didn’t make you want to shake out of your skin at all.

Then you reached for your boring, standard government-issue gun - your normal piece was actually nice to look at, but was too flashy - and nestled it beside the front of your hip bone. You preferred your normal leather side holster, but this thin spandex junk was the only thing that fit under the damn suit. Stupid. 

“So do we have a story as to why there’s three of us?” You raised your voice loud enough for the boys to hear you through the bathroom door as you scrubbed a bit of ink off of your face. “Or do I have to think of it myself?”

A short pause.

“We could just tell the truth,” Sam rang from the bedroom as you started wrestling with your hair. How had it even done that? “That it’s your first case back after you were injured. Keep it simple.”

“I don’t wanna seem incompetent or something, though.” You frowned and dabbed on a bit of makeup. Just enough to be convincing. You'd never been super great at it - being on the road left you with few opportunities to practice, and there was only so much room in your bag. So you kept it simple. Professional. “Maybe I’m a criminal profiler.”

“We’re the agents and you’re the shrink? That could work.” That was Dean, eloquent as always. He hadn't looked you in the eye yet, still, but you were shoving your frustration aside for the sake of peace. _Again._ Old habits, you supposed. "You know enough psychobabble for that?"

"Honey, I grew up surrounded by foster kids." You smiled smugly and sauntered out of the bathroom in your dark, tailored suit: straight-leg pants that fit you perfectly and blazer that pulled in at the waist without being restrictive. You didn’t wear a tie. You wouldn’t wear a tie under threat of death. "I know _all_ the psychobabble."

Then you sat on the bed while Dean took his turn, pulling on your classic men’s dress shoes, in a size that actually fit you, with the best insoles you could afford slipped into them. God only knew if you would need to run in these bad boys. You were not wearing heels to a ghost hunt, even if they made you feel sexy.

You ignored the quirked brow in your direction from Dean on his way past you, trying not to think about everything that could be running through his head. If he wanted to be weird you would let him. You would just drink your coffee in silence and not look at each other at all. Perfectly normal.

Though you did almost have a heart attack when Dean walked out a few minutes later in a suit of his own. Hoo boy. Just imagine how good he would look in a decent tux. The cheap thing he was wearing now did almost nothing for him, but the thought of grabbing his tie and pulling him into a heated kiss practically made you salivate.

It was fucking pavlovian how you reacted to this man. It was starting to get stupid.

You were starting to wonder if you actually should’ve taken this case.

You took a deep breath and fought the urge to offer to buy the boys new, nicer suits. You swallowed it down with your shitty motel coffee. That would be light-years beyond weird. Normal people didn't bring co-workers to tailors to get them expensive suits.

Not like you hadn't done it before, but still. You were trying to distance yourself from shit like that. And your cash flow was a joke compared to before.

You just turned around too quickly and grabbed your notepad, catching Sam's raised-eyebrow smirk all the way from the door. His eyes glinted and you swore that he was chuckling under his breath. 

Asshole thought this was funny. You shoved your way past him and your face felt hot.

He was _so_ on to you.

Thankfully you were at the crime scene not long after that, thanks to Dean’s reckless driving. It was an old, cute, Victorian style home turned frat-house, with more than enough rooms for the small chapter. Crime scene tape cordoned off the otherwise empty front porch from the jarringly normal neighborhood around you. The eerie, oppressive kind of normal.

A young, blonde police officer with an undercut stood in front of the house like a sentry, thumbs hooked in her belt loops as she scrutinized everyone walking past. Including you.

Her name plate read Officer Wilson. And she... was very buff. And had a hell of a jawline.

You ignored the fact she could probably bench lift you, and how that made your insides melt into a pile of useless gay goop, and let Dean talk to her instead. He flashed his badge at her and you and Sam followed suit. “Agent Buck, FBI. These are Agents Stipe and Mills. We need access to the crime scene.”

“We didn’t get any calls about the FBI comin’ up here.” She narrowed her eyes at the three of you, the same dissecting gaze from before falling across you. Then she paused suddenly, brown eyes shooting sharp like daggers at Dean. “And don’t you normally come in pairs?”

“We sent notice yesterday,did it not go through?” Sam handed her a card, smiling placatingly in that way he does. “You _can_ call our supervisor, if you really need to, but he’s very busy and I don’t think he would be too happy.”

She made a humming noise in the back of her throat, obviously unconvinced.

Time to turn up the charm, then. You had a good feeling about this.

“Hi, Officer Wilson, right? I’m Agent Mills! It's a shame to meet in such unfortunate circumstances, but I can't say I regret it.” You put on your best charming smile and shot her a wink, flipping your hair slightly and tilting your head in what you hoped was an appealing manner. “I’m actually the reason we’re here. You see, I’m a psychoanalyst. Agents Buck and Stipe are here to investigate while I build a profile. This might be connected to a case in Louisiana, and it’s essential that we see the crime scene and autopsy in person.” You leaned in conspiratorially, voice low, like you’re not supposed to be telling her this, before you lightly rested your hand on her forearm. You caught the way her eyes wandered downward, stopping to linger on your best features. There _was_ a reason you'd gotten this suit fitted the way you did, after all. You licked your lips to get her attention back on your face. “Have to be sure we don’t have a murderer crossing state lines. You understand.”

She half-heartedly looked at your ID one more time before her lips spread into a coy smile, and she nodded towards the door. “Of course, Agent,” She moved over and unlocked it, before leading you three up the creaky stairs to the primary crime scene - Corey’s pigsty of a bedroom. “Let me know if you need anything else, Agent Mills.” She gave you a lingering look, her hand brushing your arm gently as she left the room and you just about died on the spot, swallowing hard.

You saw how Sam eyed the exchange with furrowed brows. You didn't catch Dean's burning look behind you.

Well, that was one way to get inside a crime scene.

When she was back outside Sam turned to you while Dean hurried off to the other side of the room. “How did you know that would work?"

"Educated guess." You shrugged, tilting your head and peering at the dried blood on the sheets instead of facing the relatively minor heat of his gaze. It had crusted up on either side of where the body was before the coroner got their hands on it, forming two distinct blobs on the bed. 

Sam didn't seem very convinced.

You busied yourself by rummaging around the cluttered moving boxes, looking for anything that might tell you why Corey was targeted. Dean's EMF was going nuts in the corner, and you pulled out yours to see if you could find anything the ghost might've touched directly, apart from the bed, which sent the thing haywire.

The cardboard boxes full of random shit were barely registering at all. Nothing on his desk seemed out of place, all normal. It wasn't until you moved to the nightstand that your meter really started screaming.

Woah.

You hovered around, trying to hone in on what was making it go off so much, until you landed on a scrap of fabric. You picked it up with furrowed brows, turning it over in your hands.

A face mask?

A cloth face mask with Oni-style teeth, like something a k-pop artist would wear.

Now why did that seem familiar?

"It seems like Corey here wasn't as nice as everyone thinks." Sam's said from off to your right, interrupting your thoughts. Your eyebrows shot up as you turned to see him holding a shoebox in one hand and a photo in the other. He held one up so you could see. "Upskirts."

“Dude, you didn’t need to show me that.” You wrinkled your nose. Gross. 

Sam just shrugged at you.

"We've had ghosts target people for their secrets before," Dean called from the window, thankfully interrupting the exchange, and still looking for whatever was making the EMF spike over by him. "We thinking something like that?"

You sighed and ran your hand through your hair, messing it up from it's professional look and immediately regretting it. Now you would have to find a mirror, damn it. "I guess it'll depend on what kind of suspicious deaths we can find in the area."

"That sounds like a good job for you guys!" Dean clapped and shot some finger guns at you and Sam.

No.

You stood up and put a hand on your hip. "I've just spent the last month and a half doing research." You pointed a finger at him, and you knew you looked like some lame mom scolding their child but you didn’t really care. "I'm going to the autopsy."

Sam sighed behind you, seemingly resigned to his fate. "I'll hit up the library, you guys go to the ME's office."

"Are you sure?" 

Now you felt bad.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, whatever."

"You're the best, dude," You grinned stupidly. It should not make you this happy to see a dead body, honestly. But you'd never claimed to be the most sane person on the planet.

On your way out Officer Wilson gave you a cheeky smile and some waggled eyebrows. You winked back at her, trying not to feel smug.

Sam was giving you that weird look again and you flushed, turning to the car and not looking back. 

Oh no. You needed to turn down your flirt. Shit. They didn't need to know you played for both teams. You didn't need to be rejected as soon as you found friends. 

So you stayed quiet all the way to the autopsy, even after you left Sam to wade through public records by himself at the library. Dean wasn’t feeling too chatty either, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight and tension in his whole body.

You nervously picked at the pilling wool fibers on your pants. Maybe he’d heard you and Sam last night. Or maybe you were bad at keeping your blush down when confronted with buff women. Maybe both. Either way you felt the nerves taking up the space where air should’ve been inside your lungs.

The ME's Office was nestled in a corner between a scuzzy looking record shop and a barely-standing post office. As soon as you walked in the smell of formaldehyde hit you like a truck, making your lips curl and eyes water. Great. 

That always bode well for a place's hygiene standards, at least, if not their consideration for the living.

It was easy enough to talk yourself into the back to see the body; the clerk didn't even care enough to look at your IDs. Wasn't paid enough to give a shit, you guessed. And the place didn't get much funding from the look of it.

Only about half the noisy fluorescent lights even worked, and the floor tiles needed a _hell_ of a wash. Dark brown stains of God knows what caked thick in the grout. Eugh. There goes your hope that the smell meant they actually disinfected the place. 

You were so dousing yourself in hand sanitizer when you got back to the motel. You would think with all the college money coming in the town could afford better facilities, but you'd never put it past Bureaucracy to be inefficient.

The Medical Examiner, Dr. Elliot, was pushing eighty years old and hunched over so far he almost resembled a candy cane. His hands were gnarled with arthritis but didn't shake so much as a hair's width. His scraggly white hair looked ready to roll off his head and become a tumbleweed. Like Doc Brown plus fifteen or so years.

"It's about time!" He smiled so wide his dentures almost popped out when he saw you two walk in and you bit back a laugh. "It's not every day we get a good murder. I was expecting the FBI to show up days ago."

You wouldn't mention that the murder only happened a day and a half ago.

"... _Right,_ " Dean smiled good naturedly as Dr. Elliot pulled Corey Matheson's body from a metal drawer. "It's been a while since the last murder in town, then?"

"Oh yes, not since the Homecoming of ninety-two. Nasty business, two football players who took a fight off the field. The poor kid from Mountain State had a massive brain hemorrhage and died a full two days later." He sighed and pulled down the sheet covering the body. "Poor boys didn't even see it coming."

"And what was the cause of death here?" You leaned in to look at the victim's face. Only five or so years younger than you but he just looked like a kid. A creepy kid, but still a damn kid. "And I'll need to take a few photos myself for my notes."

"Go ahead," he waved at the body and walked back over to his desk, grabbing his report from a filing cabinet. You pulled out your Polaroid camera from your messenger bag and shot a picture of the wound cut into Corey's face - a smile from one ear to the other.

"Cause of death was exsanguination. Out of the nine stab wounds to the torso, three hit the heart, and another four hit major veins and arteries. He would've bled out in less than a minute." He gestured to the face. "Facial lacerations caused after death, and not with a scalpel. Maybe a kitchen knife or other relatively dull cutting instrument. No wounds anywhere else on him."

"That's odd," You pressed your lips into a thin line at that, brows almost touching. "No defensive wounds?"

"None to be seen. Fit as a fiddle but for the fact he's dead."

"Right." You let out a snort through your nose before coughing into your elbow to cover it up. "Thank you for your help."

"Oh, no problem at all! I'm always happy to have visitors!"

You matched his smile, turning back to give him a tiny wave on the way out. 

There was a niggling feeling in the back of your mind. A familiar ring to the gruesome smile cut into a face that sent your thoughts reeling, wracking through memories of your old cases for anything similar.

You turned to Dean as he pulled out of the lot. "Does any of this feel oddly familiar to you?"

He shrugged and shook his head. He seemed a bit less tense than earlier. "Not more than any other case."

You hummed, sinking back into the depths of your memories, thinking over the case the whole drive to the motel. 

Sam was there when you got back, eyes half-glazed from staring at the computer for so long. He must’ve walked back from the library by himself.

"Find anything?" Dean shrugged off his jacket and you tried not to stare at his arms.

"Just that Corey had some complaints in high school that didn't lead anywhere." He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed at his sinuses. You moved over to your nightstand, grabbing at a small bag on top. "No murders that match, though. Or suicides."

“Like, at all?” Dean’s eyebrows went quirky.

“No,” Sam continued as you rifled through your med pack for some Tylenol. Your leg felt like it was on fire - you would have to try and walk less tomorrow. “But he has a sister that goes to Pikes. Working on her Asian Studies Masters. Works as a TA year-round.”

“Asian Studies?” Dean had a stupid, dopey look on his face. “Sounds like my kinda deal.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Dude.” Sam sounded like he was about to start something, but you started talking before he could.

“We should talk to her, then,” You said plainly, finally finding the meds and swallowing them dry - you’d gotten used to it. You wiped your mouth and started again. “Maybe we can see if something from their hometown hitched a ride. Is she on-campus?”

Sam glanced at the computer for a moment before looking back at you. “No, she lives in an apartment on the other side of town.”

You stood up with a wince, grabbing all your things again even though you’d just sat down. “Let's go then.”

“Woah, there, Speedy Gonalez,” Dean eyed your right leg and you crossed your arms defensively. “Why don’t we wait a bit and have some lunch?”

You huffed, sitting down on your bed again. “Sure. Whatever.”

You weren’t going to fight him on this, but you weren’t going to say you were in pain.

He clapped his hands. “Alright, are we thinking the diner up the street?”

A sigh and a nod from Sam, leaving you outvoted no matter what you said.

Greasy diner food it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, jeez, I wonder why Dean is so tense. Lol my poor babies.  
> This chapter brought to you by sheer force of will. This thing did not want to be written. Been banging my head against a wall for a week trying to get it longer than a thousand words. My college has switched to online for the rest of the semester and that's... been something. My seventy-five year old geography professor delayed the test because he doesn't know how our online system works. So here's to hoping it's not a horrible, scrambled mess when it does come out.  
> So, anyone have ideas or predictions? And what have you been occupying your time with in self-isolation? I've picked Pokemon back up and have taken up cross-stitch!  
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and have a nice day! <3


	6. Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case seems simple enough to solve, if only Sam would stop trying to get secrets out of you.

If Dean was a scared teenage exchange student that just saw his friend murdered, where would he run off to to feel safe?

His first guess would be home, but Sean Bierne’s home was in Quebec. And that was a hell of a drive, even by Dean’s standards. And while the nearest Airport was only an hour away, he could’ve gone there. But then again, there was no evidence the key witness had even left town - all his things were still unpacked neatly into the second-hand dresser drawers of the KDA frat house. So unless he left all his stuff behind, Sean hadn’t hopped on the first flight out.

But he’d made himself scarce enough to be annoying as hell, not that Dean could blame the kid.

He just had to track him down. Couldn’t be that hard, could it? Dean was a _professional monster hunter_. Finding some nineteen-year-old sound engineering major couldn’t _possibly_ be any harder than finding a vamp nest. 

No way. 

Easy peasy.

So first things first, he’d checked out the temporary dorm assignments for the remaining eight frat boys. The on-campus dorms were a serious downgrade, compared to the house. Two to a room now, tight quarters, musty rooms, and communal showers - one reason Dean was glad he never went to college. 

But none of the other boys had seen the Canadian since the first night there, over forty-eight hours ago. Great.

He would’ve followed up with Sean’s professors, but given that classes weren’t in session yet, there weren’t any around that knew him. Best he could do was follow the kid’s hobbies. 

Now, Sean was a new transfer, and wasn’t really established in the local culture yet, but he _was_ trying out for the swim team in a week and a half, according to his new, temporary roommate. 

So then Dean checked the school’s modest indoor pool, thinking that maybe the kid had been exercising out his stress. But the student employee manning the gym check-in - a cute blonde studying Physiotherapy (which Dean did _not_ make a joke about, thank you) - said Sean had shown up the day before, but could barely swim a few laps. Hadn't been back since.

The next place he checked was the bar (the one with walls plastered in college posters), but that was a ghost town at two in the afternoon. The only people in were tired-looking RA’s and some professors obviously enjoying some of the last dregs of summer before they were knee-deep in assignments. Good of a reason as any to day-drink, he supposed. 

All he could do was sigh, patience running thin. 

Son of a bitch.

The Universe just loved to make things harder for him.

“I hope you’re not planning to drink on the job, Agent Buck.” He heard a smug, familiar, excruciatingly sing-song voice from his right, as soon as he was considering doing just that. 

It was Officer Wilson.

Of course it was.

Dean could feel his hair going grey with every fucking second.

Fuck you, The Universe.

She was in her civvies now - a grey henley and well-worn flannel rolled up to her elbows. Obviously off-duty. But he could still spot the outline of a gun holster beneath the loose blue flannel. Typical.

Not that Dean didn’t keep a gun on him at all times, too.

Even though she looked relaxed, sitting at the bar and nursing some douchey-looking local craft beer - Dean recognized the passive vigilance in her gaze and stance, body turned toward the door, eyes tracking any newcomer that wandered in, ready to leap into action if she was needed.

Not dissimilar to how any given hunter would act.

She’d been trained well.

And, _God_ , Dean hated her stupid face.

“I’m looking for the witness, actually." He cleared his throat and stood up straighter, adjusting his tie absentmindedly. "Sean Beirne.”

“Have you checked the Student Center yet?” Wilson quirked an eyebrow and tilted her head. Was she smirking? She was definitely smirking. Like he was a dumbass for not thinking of that already. “That’s where we landed him yesterday.”

“No,” He bristled despite himself, jaw working at nothing. “I’ve been following his interests.”

“Okay, whatever,” Officer Wilson shrugged and rolled her eyes, sipping at her beer. Oh, she was mocking him now? Great. She could mock him _all she wants_. Dean saved more lives last year alone than she would in her whole life. So she could suck it. “It’s your case.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted, as if that wasn’t the stupidest possible response, turned on his heels, and marched out of the bar before he lost his damn mind.

So much for that beer he wanted.

It would only taste bitter now, anyway.

\---

“So, you gonna tell me what was up with you and Officer Wilson?”

And Sam was asking you questions now instead of just looking at you like a puzzle all through lunch. 

Great. 

You would prefer for him to stay at the passive, staring stage of suspicion, thanks.

“What do you mean?” You shrugged, tilting your head at him in feigned confusion. It was none of his business that some of your flirting was genuine. You just kept walking up the stairs in the two-story townhome where Emily Matheson lived, only lagging behind the Winchester by a few steps, even if your leg was burning with each step. “I got us into the crime scene.”

He huffed at that, smiling and shaking his head.

He didn’t buy it. 

Double great. 

“I don’t know, that misty-eyed look when you first saw her was nothing? And that blush? You’re not exactly _subtle_ , Y/n.”

You would never admit to anyone that you reacted to that by making a choked noise not dissimilar to that of a strangled cat. Not embarrassing at all. 

You knocked on Emily’s apartment door without saying anything in response, fighting the heat creeping up your neck and onto your face. You wouldn’t dignify his inquiry with a response. Your poker face was _so_ screwed, you could feel it. How had you gone soft so quickly? Had a year off really worn away your stoicism so easily?

At least you could _afford_ to be a little unsubtle now, at least most of the time. Maintaining a cold facade constantly was… grating to say the least. It seems your masks went down the drain with your interrogations and bougie wine.

Well, good. You wanted nothing to do with that anymore anyway. Crappy alcohol was a meager price to pay for freedom.

You were still stuck between a rock and a hard place with Sam, though, free or not.

“Seriously?” Sam scoffed, as if you were acting like a child. He even looked a little hurt. But you were just reading into things, surely. “I’m not judging, I just-” 

\- Emily Matheson swung open her chipped, pale yellow front door, effectively cutting him off and saving you from Sam’s dumb, smart brain all at once. And Sam, for his part, went blessedly quiet, dropping seamlessly into Fed mode and talking your way into the apartment with ease. 

You wandered in after him, looking everywhere but your temporary partner and taking in the scene before you.

At least there was plenty there to distract you.

It was just a cluttered, small, one-bedroom apartment with bubbling blue paint and off-kilter kitchen cabinet-doors. Quaint, cute touches in the kitchen itself, like the floral pattern dishcloths and pastel pink tea-kettle.

But, holy moly, the place was a mess.

There were just _so many fucking books_. So many of them, in fact, that poor Emily had to scramble around just to make room on her couch for you and Sam. About half of them were in Japanese, and another good chunk were in Korean. Was that one Chinese? Vietnamese? Tai?

Christ, was one extra language not enough anymore?

Posters and nick-knacks plastered the living room wall, staggered but somehow still deliberate in their placement. Like someone had spent a lot of time in front of that wall with hands on her hips and adjusting them until they were _just so_ to cover the chipped paint underneath _._

There was one particular kabuki mask that was boring its empty eyes straight through your soul.

You shuddered and flipped off the wooden fox mask when no one was looking. Creepy son of a bitch had no right looking at you like that.

Emily managed to brush off the lumpy, green, and most likely second (or third, or fourth)-hand couch one last time before she turned around with a watery smile and red eyes, and gestured for you to sit. So you smiled amicably back and lowered onto it, refusing to wince at the way it tweaked your right leg and made you feel like it’d just been stabbed with a needle on top of the burning pain already there. Instead, you just slipped into a mask of calm, controlled authority, still looking deliberately away from Sam, and leveled Emily with a sympathetic gaze. “I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll try to wrap this up as fast as we can.”

“Yeah,” She nodded half-heartedly, making the messy bun on her head flop around and threaten to come undone. She padded to the kitchen and turned on the pale electric kettle. “Is Oolong Tea okay with you, or would you two prefer coffee? I only have instant, though. Sorry.”

You just barely caught how Sam scrunched up his nose, eyebrows furrowing together in a look somewhere between concern and discomfort. “You don’t have to make us anything, Miss Matheson.”

And she deflated like a sad balloon animal, shoulders slumping over with a heavy sigh. Whether it was with relief or disappointment, you weren’t sure. “Okay.” It was the tiniest, thinnest little voice you'd ever heard.

Just about broke your heart.

She sat across from you on the only other chair in the room - an uncomfortable looking wooden piece that was too short even for her - and she was just under five feet tall, already. Was that made for children? Or was it just old? You couldn't really tell. Emily just seemed to ignore the fact that her knees were halfway to her chest though, so you wouldn’t say anything about it. Not when she looked sadder and more fragile than a porcelain doll and their shiny eyes. 

You narrowed your eyes and peered at her hands.

Huh.

When had she picked up that cloth mask? She was gripping it tightly in one hand and was rubbing her thumb across the seam like a worry-stone.

“What’s that?” You murmur, nodding at the grey fabric between her hand.

“A mask from Japan.” She looked down and smiled wistfully. “It was part of a set I got while I visited over the summer. I gave most of them to Corey, but he said this one was too girly.” She giggled sadly and held it up to her face. It had a kitty-cat mouth on it and little blush effects.

She sat it back down on her lap and sighed, running her hands over the cotton. The memory must be very bittersweet now.

Then she wrapped an arm around herself and sat up straighter, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance now, glassy. Her smile was plastered on, fake, and was slipping away as fast as she put in on. “So what did you want to know?”

"What was Corey like?” Sam started before you got the chance to speak and you tried not to let your eye twitch in annoyance. “His friends seem to think he was great, but what about you? You know him better than anyone else."

She hesitated, sucking in a long breath. "He was… dedicated. Ambitious. Always sought to better himself. And…" She sighed, pressing a hand against her eyes now, rubbing at her sinuses which were no doubt sore from crying.

"...And, he had issues with women." You finished for her, voice soft. 

"Yeah." She laughed humorlessly and shook her head. A few dirty-blonde strands of hair fell from her bun and hung limply around her face. She didn’t seem to notice or care. " _‘Issues’_ is an understatement."

"So, he might have gotten on somebody's bad side? Maybe a woman from your hometown"- Sam glanced at his notes -"Westchester?"

"What?" Emily curled up her lip into a confused frown. "No, those girls he hassled in high school washed their hands of him a while ago. Living their own lives."

"And what about any deaths there? Maybe we could be looking at a victim's family lashing out?"

"I-" She lost even more steam, if that was possible, somehow still managing to look pathetically sad as she glared at the both of you back and forth, sitting there in her Sanrio-print pajamas. Rilakumma the bear, if you remembered correctly. "You're not accusing him of anything, are you?"

She was ninety-nine percent of the way to full-blown tears now. 

You’d have to wrap this up fast before you broke her.

"No, Miss Matheson, of course not." You shook your head and opened your posture up, hands held up in an attempt to look less threatening. "We were just wondering if anyone you know might have a-” You cleared your throat. “-a grudge against..." You pursed your lips, pausing again for just a moment trying to find a word that wouldn't hurt her feelings.

"-A grudge against perverts?" She cut in before you could finish, her lips pressed into a line, looking like there was a ton of bricks weighing down on her shoulders. But she didn’t look surprised. "Yeah, there's somebody like that. Don't know if he'd travel three hundred miles for it, though. The killer's been convicted."

You finally met Sam’s eyes at that, if just for a moment, and he nodded. You looked back at Emily. "What about a killer?"

"A few years ago there was this teacher that… that _assaulted-”_ She choked around the word, looking out the window now instead of anywhere near you or Sam, scratching at her legs as if the subject made her itch. She took a deep breath and started again. “-and killed a girl from his class. Her dad's been a wreck ever since. Full of this uncontrollable, righteous anger.” She sighed and shook her head. “I don't think Ignacio would do this though. We were all pretty close, and Corey's records were sealed. There wouldn’t be a reason for him to go this far." She sniffled and tears finally spilled over her puffy eyelids and onto her face. “We still have some of the stuff Angie was gonna take to Oregon State.”

And you made the poor girl cry. Fantastic.

"Okay, thank you Miss Matheson. Just one more question.” You tapped your pen on your paper, anxious to get the info and solve this case. “Can we get the names of everyone involved? Just so we can eliminate them from the suspect pool, of course.”

…

“Found it,” You kicked at Sam’s shins lightly underneath the tiny, zebra-patterned motel table, earlier conversation thankfully benched until you were at least done researching. Even though you caught the curious looks he sent your way every once in a while. “Angelina Espinosa from Westchester, New Mexico. Killed by her Math teacher two years ago, right after her senior year started. They found five bodies in his basement, including hers. All young women. A few still haven’t been identified.”

You sighed, the wind flapping at your lips in a horribly unflattering way, but you didn't really care.

You hated people sometimes.

"The problem is," You started, rubbing at the knots in your thigh muscle absentmindedly. "Is that she was cremated. And even if her father has a lock of her hair or something, I've never seen a ghost hop state lines like this." You chewed at your lips as you thought, faintly tasting a tinge of copper from how chapped they were. And you'd forgotten your damn lip balm at Bobby's. “Not without an anchor.”

Triple great.

Sam's eyes lit up and he sat up straighter in his chair. "Emily said they still have some of her dorm stuff."

You blinked, realization dawning on you. "Any one of those things could've brought her here. Take the pissed off ghost of a rape victim, add a skeevy, pervert, teenager, some feelings of betrayal…"

"And you've got a recipe for murder." Sam finished for you, eyes wide.

"We need to call Emily."

…

Three calls and thirty minutes later, you and Sam were sitting behind the motel in shitty, wobbly, half-broken plastic chairs, watching Angelina’s unused university supplies go up in flames. Dean hadn’t been able to find Sean, but hopefully he wouldn’t need to. 

With any luck, this case was over.

You cracked open your cheap beer and gulped down half of it in one go, cringing at the taste. But at least it would get you tipsy.

Sam's bottle hissed open as you watched the fire lick over the top of the steel drum you'd found by the dumpster. "What, on the road this long and can't handle shitty beer?"

"I'm used to it." You shrugged, looking at the beer in your hand with a grimace. "Just never quite the same after you get a taste of the good stuff."

"Yeah, I get that." He chuckled beside you. "This place at Stanford had the most addicting espresso - and they served it with real custard icecream they made in-house. I'd shell out before every test like clockwork.” He shook his head, causing his hair to go with it. “Now it's all I can think about when I drink gas station coffee."

You made a sound in the back of your throat halfway between a groan and a whine. "Jesus, I can't remember the last time I had actually decent coffee. Bobby's shit tastes like an oil spill."

When you looked over at him, he had a glint in his eyes that made your throat go dry.

You did not like that look one bit.

"You know what?" Sam pulled out his wallet and started counting out bills. After a moment he held them up in one hand, practically waving it in front of your face, even if he was five feet away. "I will give you a hundred dollars, right now, you can buy as much quality coffee as you want - if you just admit you like women."

You held back a groan.

"Fuck _off,_ Winchester." You grunted, turning back to the fire and ignoring the cash in his hand, fist clenching around nothing in your pocket. "Keep your damn money."

You didn’t need this baggage brought up right now.

A huff and the sound of shuffling paper, and a wallet snapping shut.

"You know I wouldn't judge you if you did, right? All I care about is that my brother doesn't get hurt."

You barked out a humorless laugh, thinking back to Dean's behavior over the past few days. "Yeah, I don't know if I have that much sway over him, buddy."

"Hate to break it to you," You could hear the frown in his voice, "But I think he's already pretty upset with you."

"No shit, Sherlock. He can barely look at me." You rolled your eyes and took another swig of acrid beer, wanting to run away from this whole conversation but remaining planted in your chair despite the gnawing unease in your chest. 

You weren’t a fucking coward. Duh.

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure it's 'cause he thinks you're stringing him along."

Your face went red and it wasn't just because you were drinking. You bristled in your seat, nerves rushing along your skin like a wave of needles bearing down all at once. "What in the _hell_ are you talking about?" You only choked on your words a little.

"Well, with you two flirting like you do - and don't even _try_ to tell me you _aren't_ -" He continued over your scoff, "And then suddenly, out of _nowhere,_ he looks like he's swallowed a goldfish whenever he looks at you. And like he wants to bite that cop's head off.” He leaned towards you and caught your gaze with his, but you refused to meet it for more than a moment. The trash fire was more interesting than his scrutinizing look, anyway. “What changed, Y/n?"

"Nothing." You grunted and refused the need to itch at the area of your thigh where stitches used to be.

" _Exactly_. Nothing. Which means he's been thinking." He laughed to himself. "And trust me, when Dean thinks too much he finds the worst possible conclusion and then drives past it to something even more horrible."

"Not like we're destined for a fairy tale romance, Sam." You knocked back the rest of your beer and rapped your nails on the glass, chest stinging. "If he wants to think I'm stringing him then let him. I'm leaving after this case."

Even if the thought made you want to vomit.

Sam sighed again for the last time that night, and went quiet as the last remains of Angelina Espinosa go up in flames.

\---

Emily wasn't expecting visitors again that day - her parents weren't getting there until the next day, and she wasn’t very close with anyone nearby. Some of her friends and coworkers already dropped off food or phoned her to offer condolences.

Maybe it was the nice lady from downstairs checking in on her again?

She wasn't expecting her mentor, Doctor Burton to be waiting there with a beautiful, blooming Singapore Orchid. He had a sad smile on his aged face as he held it out for her. "How've you been holding up, kid?"

He’d already called her yesterday, why was he dropping by now? He’d never even been to her house before, and she would’ve preferred to keep it that way.

But Emily Matheson was raised to be a gracious host, so she swallowed down any rude comments and covered them up with a weak smile. "I’m better than yesterday, for sure.” She took the potted plant with shaking hands and scrubbed away her tears with her sleeve before leading Dr. Burton to the sofa and sitting next to him, too tired to even make him his favorite tea. 

She preferred Oolong to Matcha, of course, but she’d picked some up on her summer trip to Japan last month. She felt rude for not offering him any, but she sat up straight and tried her best to be nice anyway, despite the unexplainable rising sense of panic in her stomach. She just took a deep breath and smiled past it just as she always did. “I meant to call tomorrow and ask for the first few weeks of term off."

"Don't worry," He murmured in the comforting, fatherly tone she'd come to associate with him and his salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm sure we can work something out."

Then Emily felt a hand on her thigh and the panic bloomed full-force in her chest.

The ghost on the windowsill gripped their scissors tighter.

\---

_You’re in the meadow again._

_A cool spring breeze blew through your hair and you sighed, taking in the clean air and tilting your face towards the warm rays of the sun. It smelled like cut grass and sweet flowers and fresh water. Warm. Safe._

_You heard a humming noise and looked down to see a bumblebee buzzing around the day-lilies lining the bench you sat on, clumsily landing on the petals to rest._

_“Fascinating little creatures, aren’t they?”_

_You knew the voice that came from your left. Felt the familiar energy and the overwhelming hum of power - and the contentedness that’s settled over your whole being._

_Not to mention the bittersweet, hollow-stinging ache in your chest of inevitable goodbye._

_Though you don’t know which of you that part came from. Maybe both of you._

_And yet when you turned, you still couldn’t make out a single one of their features. They looked fuzzy and blurred at the edges, like a polaroid that came out all wrong. Vaseline on the camera lens, leaving you unable to focus on any amount of detail. Only left with the impression of something vaguely human-shaped and humming with angelic power._

_Not like you were in a position to complain. You were lucky to be here at all._

_“Yeah,” You chuckled, watching the same bee wobble back into the air and buzz on behind you. “They’re pretty cute.”_

_“Not one of my top reasons for liking them, but I suppose I can’t argue with that.” A laugh - one that you felt more than heard, one that felt like church bells in your chest. “As beings without true physical form, well, we Angels tend to find the concept difficult.”_

_You pulled your legs up to your chest and lay your head on your knees, peering at them - at_ Castiel. _“Is that why I can’t see you that well?”_

_“It’s more the fact that you’re dreaming. I don’t think your subconscious knows what form to fill me in with.”_

_You sat up suddenly, spine going stiff, eyes darting across the park around you._

_Sure enough, detail seemed to fade and blur around you, bending and warping at the seams of your vision. Just right enough to give the impression of a natural setting. Almost like an oil painting._

_You sucked in a breath, heart clenching painfully._

_Of course it’s a dream._

_You should’ve known._

_You just leaned back and closed your eyes, soaking up the sweet, fake sun rays, despite the disappointment singing through your chest. “Is it rude to ask why now, after all this time?”_

_“Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t even be watching over you, let alone talking to you.” A sigh that blew threw the whole dream, knocking leaves out of trees and blowing your hair into your face. “But after what happened with Alioth, I’ve been growing… increasingly restless. After feeling your distress last night I figured it’s the least I could do is grant you a peaceful night’s rest.”_

_You press your lips into a thin line, mulling over what he just said. “So you know about what happened with the pyromaniac, then?” You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter and try to push out the lingering memories of pain and hospital smells._

_“I was there.”_

_You nearly gasp but choke it down, opening your eyes and searching the blurry form of your soulmate, trying and failing to discern any expression from the angel next to you._

_No dice._

_“I stopped him, but in my haste, he escaped from his vessel before I could properly kill him. I had limited time on earth without the others’ notice; I had to pick a priority. And I chose you.”_

_You closed your eyes again and tried not to start crying, instead rubbing at the sore spot on your temple. What Castiel just said was so achingly tender you felt the longing of it in your fucking soul. “So he’s looking for a new host, then, probably.”_

_“More than likely.”_

_The silence hung between the two of you for a long time._

_“I’ve apologized before, but I doubt you remember. Dreams have a tendency to slip away from humans.”_

_“Do you think I’ll remember this?”_

_“...It’s not likely.”_

_That hurt more than you could ever admit. You just fought back your snide remarks and the bitter taste of wondering what the point was. “I don’t suppose there's a chance we can meet for real.”_

_You knew the answer before you could finish the question. Why you even bothered asking you didn’t know._

_“If we ever meet face to face, Y/n, I’m afraid we’ll have much bigger problems on our hands than just Alioth.”_

_You shouldn't have taken it so personally. You knew that. Angels didn't come to Earth anymore. Period. End of story._

_But it still felt like you'd been punched in the gut._

_You swallowed thickly past the lump in your throat. Even in a dream, you could feel the sting of tears in your eyes and throat. You shut them tight and clenched your fists in the cotton of your sundress._

_Fine then. The angel could stay in heaven and not bother you. Let you live like a normal goddamn hunter. By_ yourself _._

 _"Then leave me_ the fuck _alone."_

_…_

Your alarm woke you up at seven in the morning. Sam was gone, probably obsessively running to distract from his nightmares, and Dean was fast asleep on the bed across from you.

He snored awfully loud.

For all intents and purposes, you were all alone. Just like always.

And you didn’t remember a thing of speaking to your soulmate. They'd made sure of it.

It would be better for everyone if you forgot.

But you, for your part, felt like you’d gotten a decent night’s sleep for the first time in months, and the burning in your right thighbone had dulled to almost nothing.

But still you were left with a horrible, resounding, saccharine _ache_ in your lungs and in your ribs, burning right through to where your soulmark should be.

It was jarring enough that you didn't even realize you were crying until you wiped the sleep from your eyes.

Your phone rang on the nightstand, waking Dean with a start and making you flinch. You grit your teeth together and sighed, answering the flip-phone with a tired, resigned, “Hello?” 

"Agent Mills?" It was Officer Wilson, her smooth, deep voice unsure. "There's been another murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hi guys. Been a while, huh? Quarantine kinda completely tanked my creative drive, but slow and steady is better than not even trying, eh? I hope you enjoyed the update and that this story can be a bit of comfort in uncertain times. Thank you to all the lovely people who've commented in the meantime, they mean the world to me!  
> Anyway poor Dean I'm bullying him.


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